In the morning dew, shadows linger, soft whispers against the skin. Each step traces out paths on sand, ephemeral, fleeting as breath. What stories do they tell when no one looks back?
Dust settles upon forgotten roads, an echo of journeys incomplete. Rivulets in the mind wend away from the known — footprints wearing the map of dreams unwarranted, leading nowhere yet everywhere.
"You cannot follow them," the trees seem to say, "these are stories in search of tellers, mysteries shrouded in daylight."
And the question remains: What is the destination when footsteps are none, when the grasping hands of time etch only reflections upon the soul?
Gaze into the distance, where the footprints fade — or do they persist, tracing patterns where the eye cannot see, in lands uncharted?