The wind took the word I never said, carrying it far across the moors.
"Do you remember the way the fog swallowed the hills?"
The voice belonged to a figure she recognized from shadowed dreams. Its shape lurked in corners, half there, half always gone. Yet it spoke words etched into the marrow of forgotten times.
The echo was faint, like an old gramophone playing a lost melody over the dust of ages.
"There was a time when the fog spoke," it insisted, "before silence learned to speak in fog."
Her hands trembled at the edges of reality, clutching at fragments caught between twilight and dawn. The murmurs of voices long faded resonated within.
The morning sun cut through the haze, but the voices persisted, hidden beneath the surface.
"Listen," whispered an echo, almost pleading, "for the unheard is never truly silent."
She closed her eyes against the light, each breath calling back shadows, each heartbeat a step deeper into the past's embrace.