Once, the skies were thick with carved memories of forgotten civilizations. Underneath the veils of cloud and time, rusted ships floated, their hulls painted over, dreamed tales washed away by rain until nothing was left but ghosts in the grain.
The gentle hum of erased voices echoes still, etched into every floating fragment of wood and steel, whispers of what should never have been forgotten, yet was erased to make way for newer dreams. Shadows of places that never existed, yet always did.
On another island, unmarked stone ruins lie, silent in their majesty. They wear the scars of endless retellings, etched stories of a world infinite in its finitude. Here history sings, a broken choir drifting on the breezes.
Each stone hides a narrative, a fragment of an old world calling to those who would listen. In the silence of their presence, one can almost hear the laughter of spirits, the echoing of footsteps on forgotten paths.