There was a time when the path laid straight, a mere whisper among faded leaves. Under the twilight's embrace, I would follow each curve, a ghost of curiosity and longing.
The stones spoke of lost memories, fragments left by wanderers unknown. Along the fractured trail, shadows danced, their tales reaching out like echoing whispers in an empty, forgotten room.
In the distance, a flicker of light swayed at the edge of perception, a beacon or perhaps just a fading star. The air held a scent of what once was, mingled with the sharpness of what might never be.
Step by step, reflection began to blur. Overhead, the branches whispered secrets the wind urged them to keep, threads of silken thought tangling in the mind's quiet corners.
It was here, on this forsaken path, that I encountered the doorframe leading nowhere and the window showing everything. A portal into the maybe, a threshold into the almost.
The path fractured not in malice but in contemplation, a reminder of our choices echoing in the cobwebbed folds of time itself.