Listen closely, the air shapes stories slumbering in the folds of night. What did the gust say as it whooshed past? A half-remembered dream? A thought unthought? You know, they say the wind has a way of carrying echoes of laughter left behind.
As I stand still, the chilling currents murmur something - something about the moon being less lonely, about shadows dancing with the ghost of a forgotten smile.
Do you hear it? A rustle like whispers of silk against skin; it beckons you to wander where the forest meets the dusk. Turn aside or follow? The choice is but a click away.
Some leave wooden statues on their porches, an offering against the night. Others? They spin tales of the old world, where fireflies were messengers and the loamy earth cradled secrets untold.
Do you dare explore with me? Click the pages of forgotten lore: