Decode, dear traveler, the whispers of yesteryears. Begin where the sun dips low over the horizon's edge, not far from the garden where lilies sigh beneath the moonlit gaze. Press on towards the echoing river, whose waters speak in verses only known to the stars.
Your steps, sweet wanderer, should follow the dance of shadows cast by ancient trees, their leaves murmuring secrets of lost embraces. Under the third oak, count the petals of a wild rose—seven shall guide your heart, though eight leads astray.
Turn, if you must, towards the forgotten mill, where the wind bends whispers into sighs, and linger there till the clock strikes twice in the silence of dawn. Remember, the path is not always laid bare; sometimes, love lies in the journey unchosen.
A Gesture Unseen Symphonies of Silent Days Where Lovers' Footsteps Fade