In the darkest cascade of murmuration, shadows flicker, voices tremble. An ageless dirge sung by rain against moss-clad stones.
Crawling laughter beneath the oak roots, breaking the silence of that circadian drift. How do they echo, those words, lost in twilight?
The wind... it knows the secrets tightly grasped by forgotten hands. Does it know the truth hidden behind time's mask?
Has the moon ever whispered, I wonder, secrets so vast they gnaw the soul’s sanity? Here lies the abyss.
Voids consort with phantoms, surfacing with the dawn—that perfumed glide of ash across a scarlet horizon.
And yet, beneath fervent loomed sky, amidst whispering grass, remains a path unwoken: Follow the lunar gleam.