A casual chat with the old walls, you see.
They spill stories like an overwatered plant—stories that drift,
half-formed and translucent, like jellyfish in the moonlit sea.
"Ever heard the one about the stone that jumped?"
an ancient bristle whispers,
"Seems gravity lost its patience that night."
And another chimes in, "You now what they say about secrets in caves—"
a laugh like dripping water follows, echoing in rhythm
with the rhythmic heartbeats of the earth beneath.
These walls, they hum a tune older than clocks, spinning
tales only the brave understand, or the foolish care to forget.
Careful now, the whispers might just guide you, glittering
with meanings as slippery as the tides scripting destiny's
dance upon the blank sands.