The silent echoes linger, they linger ceaselessly, they whisper softly among the rustling reeds, fading with each breath of wind, only to return, only to return, only to return as shadows lengthen.
The past is a river of forgotten murmurs, a river flowing gently beneath the surface of what we see, what we know, what we trust to remain silent, to remain still.
The words once spoken, once etched in the stones, are now but a memory of a memory. They flow, oh they flow, like water through timeless channels of forgotten dreams and endless reveries.
In the twilight, where dusk meets dawn, there lies a promise, a promise kept in silence, a promise to listen, to listen to the echoes that speak of ages long past and futures unwritten.
Such is the whisper of the ancient winds, such is the song of the stars, an endless refrain that speaks of the void, that speaks of the infinite, that speaks of the silence.
Do you hear the whispers of the ancient channels? Do you hear the echoes of their dreams? Follow the echoes and unravel their secrets.
Let not the silence deceive, let not the stillness deflect, for within lies the truth, the truth of the ancients, the truth of knowing.
The silence is a keeper, a guardian of the lost voices that once sang in harmony, that once spoke in riddles, that once called to those who would heed the call, the ancient call.