In the hushed corridors of a fading memory, the tales remain, nestled between the echoes of laughter and the soft sighs of time. Do you remember the old mill by the river? They say it whispered secrets of ages past, of stories buried beneath the stones where the cold water muses. To the casual glance, it was merely a forgotten relic, yet to those willing to listen, it spoke of a world otherwise unseen.
Nights there were painted with the colors of nostalgia, the kind that linger just beyond the reach of dawn. Once, there lived a woman who claimed the moon's glow could unravel the fabric of dreams, revealing truths embedded in the tapestry of stars. Her voice, mellow and warm, carried the weight of ages, wrapping around the listeners like a familiar embrace.
And what of the children playing in the fields like secretive shadows, their laughter mingling with the breeze? They knew, as children often do, what adults often forget — the truths whispering in the dark, stories of a time that was, and a time that might yet be again.
Wandering these roads leads anywhere and nowhere, a circle drawn on parchment, lines unfurling into memories not yet lived. Do we chase our footsteps only to find the paths already trodden?