The village stood at the lip of the cosmos, where the fields kissed the edges of an unfathomable sky, always shifting in hues of lavender and despair. The scent of forgotten harvests hung in the air, dense and rich like the memories of laughter that had once filled the scattered homes.
Every now and then, gripped by an untimely quarrel or an unkindly urge, the villagers would stand by their doorways and cry into the vastness, seeking solace in familiar voices carrying over the stars like an ancient melody. Today, it was Yasmoune, her voice cutting through the stillness, searching for something long lost.
This is where we find the essence of track, the trace left—echo, yet unheard. In reflections across the forgotten stones, the imprint of her voice made laughter and pain merge into a singular sound, continuous as the rippling world below.