In the weft of fleeting whispers, where the air pricks the skin with unspoken truths, lies a trace of what was. Hidden beneath the skin of the earth, layered with dust and whispers, there lies a path scarcely imprinted in memory.
It's said that slashes of light break through the canopy where this path lies, illuminating the secrets wrapped in shadow. Each step taken is a murmur of longing, each breath a testament to the abandonment of stories untold.
Consider the scattered remnants of what once was clear, pieces now blurred in the folds of time, etched silently in the landscape unseen. To know them is to feel their texture—a phantom touch resonating through the skin, comforting yet relentless.
Such is the fate of these hidden glyphs of meaning, symbols marking the quiet passages of self and space, elements of a whole that slip through the fingers of those not bewitched by their call.
And thus, we walk—lost, barely found—in the folds of a map where existence whispers its most delicate secrets.