There were once gentle murmurs here, traces of soft voices in the stone. They spoke of pathways untaken, of dreams zeroing in on the horizon. Our current echo is, "why do the hills mimic one's shadows?" Your answer lies beyond the ambient lessons of the night.
Pages of fossilized thoughts reveal a pursuit; deciphering riddles left by the ancestors. "...Roses wept for thorns"; ancient laughter, the essence dried and preserved in sandstone.
An absence of clocks became the ultimate refuge. The sun was cared for and told stories of forgotten souls dancing on endless paths.
An echo is chasing the listener now. And when silence finally envelops, hovering over graveyards of stars becomes inevitable.
Here lies a reflection in a forgotten well — crystalline, yet parasitic — the rain regrets not listening... or perhaps it couldn't ever hear. Dare to touch the whispers caught unseen by the quiet veils of time?