The hidden path whispers through a canopy of forgotten fragments: stop-and-look mirrors hidden under veils of vine. In shadows that dance to silent echo, where once stories flutter like moths, only syllables repeat. Fragment after fragment, a loop, a loop; like raindrops chasing one another down windowpanes, they join and form patterns on the world folded into whispers.
Beyond the doorway locked by time sits a meadow of smoke and symbols, where the air trembles with the shimmer of a story looping back on itself, like the eternal orbit of worlds unseen. Stand. Listen. There, in the silence thrumming with invisible color, a path unravels—yet binds—each step cradled by its own renown. The ground murmurs, "Not yet, not yet," a patiently denying maestro commanding reverie through repetition.