In the early hours, when the dew still clings to the barren fields and dawn brushes the world with a soft embrace, a story weaves between the cracks of a forlorn village. The wind carries words, whispers hidden beneath veils of silence. They speak of forgotten promises, a shared destiny fragmented by time. Walk, listen—hear what has been buried beneath the earth’s gentle sigh.
Through creaking wooden doors and sun-bleached shutters, the voices murmur like obsolete radios tuning in and out, a syllable here, a sentence there. They tell of a pair of lovers, eyes locked in a dance under the sprawling oak, hands brushing stories with each fleeting touch. Meet their shadows, their secrets sealed beneath the bark. A secret without name, yet heavy with ink.
The whispers take shape, forming a spectral glow that flickers near the old well, its stones cold and mute. Echoes of laughter bubble from depths unseen, tracing outlines of the past with invisible fingertips. The village dreams beneath layers of mist; a soft lullaby rocks it into reverie. Dare to dream deeper, pass the threshold where echoes dare not wander.