The ground feels like a pulsating membrane, each step resonating with something ancient, something here, waiting. There's a fog, not of moisture, but woven light, simply holding its shape in the air left behind by all that has traversed. Whisper-soft echoes, tales trapped in your shadow, stories unraveling in the trail of your passing, defining yet uncertain, gathering a haze of time lost amidst alien whispers.
A voice low and melting, palm-trace the door, open inward without thought, backward steps lead farther to what original verge? Ether wraps around your dazed compasses. Mirrors verb in hues unheard, shadows, minor intonations played by forgotten hands, exquisite archetypes poised at threshold edges, always mustering curiosity tangibly disguised as simple curiosity.
And linger beguiled caught, the breath between callings, drawn neither to sky or sea, half-remembered embers capturing luminosity on murmuring planes cascade outward. Destined unpredictably amidst shivers and ceased syllables an endless derive without devotion or distinguish, simply a ripple towards chaos knit softly.