The ground beneath your shoes tells tales of wanderers past, stories etched in the dust, fading yet eternal. Every mark in the soil is a postcard from time itself, unwritten but felt deep in the marrow. A mild breeze stirs an ancient whisper—welcome.
Here, where the ocean meets the land, time seems benevolent, stretching moments into hours. You pause, recalibrating your internal compass. The horizon is ambiguous, a promise shrouded in haze. The echoes of footsteps resound; you are not alone.
In this hollow chamber, the silence speaks: it convicts you of unpremeditated journeys, of roads not taken and words never uttered. The past lingers, like the scent of salt in the air, evocative of memories long buried beneath the waves.
The Earth moves beneath you, a gyroscope in constant flux. You breathe, exhale the remnants of yesterday, inhale the quietude of possible tomorrows. With each step, the footprints of yore intertwine with your own, a tapestry woven in time.