You ever heard the tales of the night-skinned winds? Old Mrs. Tinsley always said they carried secrets from the starchless voids. Yeah, sounds ridiculous, right? Well, doesn't everything after midnight sound a tad more believable when whispered?
I was there, standing in the den of echoes when it happened again. A voice, or maybe more like a thought, slipping through the cracks in reality. "The last one sleeps beneath woven gleams." You could almost trace the chill along the walls, following its jagged path until it faded, leaving a silence that buzzed like a long-dead radio.
Wanna know what I did next? Nah, probably not. But imagine this: a chase through alleys sketched with shadowy pastels, corners that bend the rules of perception, and there I was, not running, but searching, perhaps against finding a familiar ground in this alien maze.
Whistletree Echoes