Whispered Paths

It was on a faded summer's eve, when the sun hung like a slumbering ember in the sky, that Alice first heard the whispers. As she wandered the golden fields, the air wrapped around her like a warm blanket, carrying voices from an unseen distance. "Alice," they sighed, like the breath of a fragile dream, "follow us and find the steps untaken."

The voices led her to a forgotten forest path, where ancient trees clutched hands above, their leaves forming a mosaic of green and gold. She stumbled upon a door hidden among roots and shadow, its wood worn and splintering. It whispered of times gone by, begging for the touch of a curious hand to turn its rusted knob. "Beyond lies truth," reminded the echoes, "or perhaps just memory."

Through the door, time seemed paradoxical. Days merged into nights without hesitation, and hues of reality blended with the surreal. Figures danced in her peripheral vision, reminiscent yet strange—a mirror to her unspooled thoughts. They seemed to be past selves, or perhaps derelict hopes wrapped in starlight.

An inscription carved into the walls glimmered faintly: "Echoes are paths; whispers are signs." Alice pondered, the phrase unraveling in her mind like a mantra. She realized, every footprint she left would one day be a memory, whispered among the trees.