In ancient woods, where cedars cling to whispers, a spark flares between worlds. Time counts itself not in linear corridors, but in hidden echoes of forgotten streams. Seek the silent watchers, the harbingers of twilit truth.
Five riddles sat beneath their shade, questions forlorn. "Where do memories retire?" smiled the rocks, but no answer came as branches weaved tales bereft by talents unforgotten. Echo triple crossings, bagpipes sewn from fallen bananas.