The woods were quiet, untouched by the passage of time. No one remembers when they stopped walking here. The paths wind like old regrets, and voices echo like whispers in empty halls. Where are they now, these echoes? Slipping through fingers like sand, or maybe like mist hidden in dawn's gentle light.
The trees themselves remember, standing sentinel to stories told and retold until the telling itself was lost but left behind the shadow of a tale. You walk alone, or maybe not so alone, for footprints—echoes, they call—lay briefly visible before the earth swallows them again.
Step into the greater mysteries