In the silence of unmeasured time, stories linger. Not bound by pages, their ink is memory's echo:
Have you ever paused beneath a tree, to hear the murmurs of leaves? They speak not of now, nor of tomorrow, but of mirrors and reflections undone.
Beyond the horizon there is a road less traveled, where footfalls trace whispers of wind. The journey begins as footprints fade into the sands of time.
Every sunset marks the closing of a chapter unwritten, their whispers guarded by phosphorescent shadows that dance upon the edge of watches unwound.
Shall we embark, beneath the canopy of forgotten skies? Or remain, amidst the breaths of paper-thin realities, in a world where solitude speaks?