Beneath the ancient oak, the hollow whispers called. With voices both unsettling and familiar. Familiar and unsettling... Habitual, as if under moonlit trance, we found our shadows. Shadows without owners, seeking solace in the dark void...
And in this place of dim memories, an ever-repeating hourglass... sands like whispers caught, caught but never held. Time flows and reflows, as we circle, and circle, endlessly...
"Do you remember the tales spun back? Back to when we saw... the unseen?" I asked no one, yet my voice, an echo, replied: Reverse them, unearth them, the buried fables of foreboding echoes.