Somewhere at the edge of the world, where the wind sings softly and the cliffs droop like solemn heads, old stories hide in the cracks of the rocks. People say these stones have ears, always ready to listen to the secrets carried by the gale. Tales twist and turn, much like the paths that lead to the cliff's edge, where yesterday's shadows mix with tomorrow's dawn.
Maybe it's true or perhaps it's a figment, an echo of tales told by candlelight. Either way, the cliffs remember. Remembering is their only occupation. Sometimes, when the moon is bold enough to peek through the clouds, you can even hear them whispering the names of forgotten travelers. We could be among them too, you know. If only we chose to listen closely.
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