In the quiet corners of forgotten dawns, anomalies find their genesis. Each moment, a seed; each decision, a soil. But what grows when the landscape is barren of intention? Footprints emerge, soft and ephemeral, tracing paths in spaces where meaning falters.
The sky spills reflections, whispers not meant for ears, only sensed in the tremors of silence. Here lies a paradox: beginnings with no ends, a cycle without breath. Does purpose lie in the wandering itself? Or in the footprints left behind, echoing in a void?
As the fog settles, the footprints lead to a door, never opened, perhaps never meant to be. Behind it lies the known unknown, the familiar stranger, waiting to greet the hesitant traveler. Will they pause? Will they enter? Or will the journey itself be the destination?