Once upon a time, in colors not too bright or dim, shadows danced on the walls. They whispered tales of forgotten things, like the girl who sang to stones that turned to ice.

"In a world of soft whispers," she said, "the clouds are not clouds but boats sailing over rivers of dreams." Here, the sun hides behind leaves, playing games of peekaboo.

Laughter echoes, fading into the forgotten wind. “Where do the stories go?” a tiny voice asks, but the trees hold their breath, secrets locked behind bark and sap.

Remember to look for the traces, the palimpsests of erased histories. Underneath the dust, the past still breathes, waiting in the unseen light.

Discover more unseen words: Glistening Tales
Or perhaps you seek lost stones: Hidden Echoes