In the twilight realm where phantoms convene, I stumbled upon parchment etched with whispering echoes.
The forest hummed with the memories of a thousand footsteps, as if the trees themselves murmured secrets of ancient wanderers.
"Beware," it read, "the shadows dance within the glade, forming paths unseen but deeply felt."
Drawn with trembling hands, the map revealed twisted trails leading to the Sunken Hollow, where lost souls flicker at the edges of reality.
A legend spoke of sprite orbs glowing pale under the crescent moon, guiding those bold enough to traverse their domain.
“Today's echo carried the scent of lingering apprehension,” I noted, marking each rustle of the leaves.
In my exploration, none remained untouched; the gray fog wrapped around my ankles like an unwelcome cat.
Could hearts beat deeper in this realm? Were they mere imagination, or were we simply wandering into the web of dreams?