In the pale shadow of the concourse, where echoes twine with the breath of dusk, lies a phantom message:

The map to your car, scribbled by a faint glow. Seek the timber lines, engraved by ancient hands. Gaze not above, where the dreams of flocks spell an obscure destiny, but beneath the embrace of the bramble, where paths intertwine in silence.

Remember the numbers. Hold the compass steady. Decode the fervor of an unseen wind. Listen carefully to the siren's orchestrated lament.