Traces of forgotten mists gather around corners like timid spectres, not here to haunt, only to listen. Is this a question or a curl, a beckoning finger or perhaps a detour whispering secrets of—

the unfathomable maze spiraling inward, drawing closer to itself. Do you feel it, the pull, the whisper's gentle insistance? It's not a decision nor a pattern but a drift, a flow, a timeless—endless loop stitched invisibly into the fabric of thoughts unraveling now, like

threads set free from a woven sky. The echoes, they know; echo, and they punctuate the silence, a punctuation mark without purpose. Is there a key to open these doors that hold their breath, waiting? Or is it, shifting pathways, that you will find?