The wind carries voices, fragmented, yearning for understanding. They are stories untold, where every gust is an unraveling thread of a once coherent tapestry now frayed.
The door—was it really open or merely imagined? Like the echoes, they are unsure if they leave or if they arrive, hermetic symphonies that chuckle in their ephemeral fog. Sometimes, we whisper back, a futile exchange with the zephyrs, believing in the possibility of clarity in a cyclone of shadow and lucidity.
And yet, the trance prevails. Tongues of tempest slither around the decision tree, where leaves murmur code not yet decrypted in the dialect of an unwritten book. Are we the authors or the specters of our own looming Fables?