The late afternoon sun dipped below a horizon that was never meant to be, casting golden hues upon the forgotten land. Somewhere in the whispers, a tune lingered—a melody not of this epoch, yet familiar.
"In the folds of time, where echoes blend, a voice calls out, a path to mend..."
The air thrummed with the resonances of ancient voices, each one a thread in the fabric of a narrative spun over millennia. I followed a path woven by the hands of unseen weavers, each step echoing in realms untouched by modern tread.
Once, a traveler named Forian whispered back to me, his cloak heavy with dust from the ages. "The flora here remembers our spoken truths, binding them to roots and leaves," he said, eyes reflecting horizons unseen by mankind.
"The woods speak in languages forgotten, murmuring secrets in twilight's embrace..."
I wondered how many hands had turned the pages of this forest, each leaf a glyph in the tome of time.