Listen closely, and the ancient tongue may wrap around you, a fleeting caress in the dusk. The winds bring tales of a time before time, a sliver of eternity, perhaps. Such are the whispers of forgotten corridors in the mind, or so they say.
In the quiet of the ascent, past the veiled mist, there lies a kingdom—an echo of what was. The winds murmured conspiracies of old stones and rusting crowns, buried beneath soil that remembers. Hear that? It's a clock ticking softly, counting moments in reverse, perhaps counting the moments before rebirth.
And so it goes, like a ripple in a sleeping pond. Secrets wound tight, unraveling slowly in the breath of the night. They say when the stars align, a voice—an older voice—will emerge, calling to the wanderers lost in their own dreams.
Curiosity piqued, you follow the trail. Echoes of past lives whisper names barely remembered, tales half-formed, your shadow confronted by the light of a world unseen. Do you dare to listen, or shall you remain adrift in the mundane?
Further on, the mists part, and you see the flicker of signs. The path weaves through forgotten worlds, and every so often, you catch a glimpse of the unseen—spectral dancers gliding through the trees, their laughter a melody from realms untold.
As night falls, the winds carry the anticipation of a story yet to unfold, a tapestry woven in silence, waiting for the hands of time to unravel its threads. Will you stay to watch, or will you wander on?