In the early hours, when the world had yet to dawn, footsteps appeared on the cobblestone streets. They spoke in whispers, tales of yesteryears carried on a breeze that danced among shadows. But these whispers were words unspoken, echoes of conversations never had, yet somehow known.
Amelia paused at the edge of her porch, the cold morning air brushing against her cheeks. She looked down, seeing the ephemeral trace of a stranger's passage. Each step left a mark, but the figure continued onwards, into the thickness of the fog, leading to nowhere but perhaps everywhere at once.
"Do you hear them too?" she whispered, almost to herself, but the question was for a thing not there, a thing that perhaps had always been.
As the hours stretched, the fog thickened, swallowing the familiar shapes of her world. Amelia ventured out, the cold stones biting into her resolve. The streets were empty, yet the air hummed with a thousand voices, an orchestra of ghosts playing a melody of lost moments.
And there, amid the fog, she found it: a door, ancient and carved with runes that whispered promises of forgotten tales. She reached out, her fingers grazing the surface, and felt a surge of warmth, a connection to a narrative not her own, swirling in the ether like the last notes of a song.