Among the echoing woods, shadows glimmer like old echoes of what once was or will be. There's a path beyond the rusted gate leading towards the ethereal glow - a point in time caught in the shifting starlight and the fading glow of deep memories that linger, untouched.

Remnants of conversations held by flickering campfires, remnants trapped on broken screens, replay themselves in the hushed whispers of the sylvan night. Each word is not a sentence but a fragment of a vision, like melopoeia woven through the leaves murmuring gentle secrets to the waiting night.