In the midnight hours, when the moon dared not shine, the cloaked figure walked
the cobbled paths of the forgotten village. Each step, a whisper against the
silence—footprints leading nowhere, or perhaps leading anywhere but here.
Inside the abandoned chapel, dust danced in the air like fairies caught in
the grip of a gentle storm. The altar stood solemn, a guardian of secrets
old as time, while shadows stretched and shrank with an unseen rhythm.
A voice like thunder, hidden beneath layers of time, murmured through
the walls, telling tales of those who walked before, of paths unchosen,
of doors unopened. Black flowers adorned the cracked pews, wilting,
their scent a bittersweet lullaby.
Perhaps one day, the thunder would reveal itself, tearing asunder the veil,
casting light on the footfalls that echo in the stillness.