Beneath the surface whispers of the night, they are written—these echoes of forgotten souls, inscriptions upon stone, embedded within the heart of the mountain. Each chiseled letter throbs under the fingers of those who dare to touch, a silent scream unleashed into the darkness. Here, in this cave where the void breathes its cool embrace, the truth sits unmoving, resolute.
Carved into the resistant mineral, a story untold: A figure stands, shrouded in moonlight, carrying despair like weathered stones atop their back. With each step, they mark the world with footprints of sorrow, cross-hatched through the earth. The voice breaks, not spoken aloud, yet resonating through the crevices of long-forgotten paths.
The light dims as the rugged winds howl, erasing their shapes from sight, yet those bristle under the chamfered clutches of time. In stark realism, these inscriptions whisper: we were here, we are here, held captive by forgotten promises and silent chaos. Sleepless eyes regard the horizon—they awaken, only to witness the topography of new falls.
Stretched across vast sections of emptiness is a bridge worn thin by whispering thunderstorms. Where is it, the embrace of voices seeking skies away? Only a fragile chant holds the answer— an understanding veiled in dreams untactfully unnoticed. Silent screams remain drawn and poised, awaiting release from suffocating silence.