In the quiet confines of a labyrinthine forest, where the sun scarcely pierces the emerald canopy, lie the trails of whispers. Trails not marked on any map, not spoken of in any tongues but the forgotten. Here, the very air vibrates with echoes of a time unremembered.
Wander and you'll find the whispers call to you. They're not words, but breaths of wind that beckon with stories etched in the bark of aging trees, tales of travelers halted in their dreams, shadows of voices bouncing off the canopy like spectral echoes.
The question lingers: who walks these paths? Who stirs the leaves with footfalls now light and ghostly? Perhaps it's the seekers of truths hidden beneath layers of earthly dust, or the dreamers chasing shapes in the light, reflections of themselves they cannot grasp.
The echoes ask of destinations unnamed, of purpose beyond the tangible. Here is a journey that has less to do with arriving rather than continuously traversing, a spiral into the self where every turn reveals a new memory that never was.