In the beginning, when time was not yet a wheel, there lay a forest, mute in its wisdom, sleepy in its centuries. Among the boughs hung the dreams of past wanderers, tangled in spider silk and dew.
Once, a voice lilting with the breath of a thousand stories, weaved through the branches, calling forth the memories of ages. Can you hear the echo of unwritten legends?
Steps echo on the leaf-littered ground, but whose steps are they when the night is deep and stars mere phantoms in the canopy?