The sun dipped beneath horizons unknown, casting a kaleidoscope of shadows as the figure stepped onto the echo path. A place whispered of in tales both grand and forgotten. Here, the air hummed with memories, remnants of voices lost in the vastness.
Here lies the maze of voices:
Walls shifting, never the same. Whispered instructions forgotten before they reach the ear. It twists around, down corridors that shouldn't exist, through doors opening to walls, and windows to slumbering skies.
"Listen to the echoes," they were told. But the echoes were silent, a paradoxical symphony of soundlessness. The figure walked on, each step a note in the uncomposed melody of solitude.
The truth within the whisper hinted at paths eternal, choices unmade, and intersections forgotten. Yet, did these paths matter? Or were they the orchestrations of an unseen hand upon an empty canvas?