Where do the leaves fall? Not beneath feet worn by forgotten paths, but above, in the whispering canopy. The sky is a fractured mirror, each shard a memory lost amid the rustling cries of time.
Who am I but a shadow passing through corridors unseen? The leaves speak, murmuring forgotten histories. Touch upon the edges of dreams—do they fade into the distance, or draw closer still?
The wind repeats a lover's name, not spoken for an age. In the murmurs of history, her face reappears, a ghost behind the glass, smiling, haunting. I move deeper, paths branching like forks in the mind.
Reflections in this ethereal mirror shift like sand in twilight. Time bends, echoes of laughter ripple, dispassionate and distant. Reality trembles, challenged by the soft hand of a breeze.
Follow the river's whisper