There are echoes in forgotten halls, whispering truths the soul knows too well. They sit in shadowed corners, cross-legged, shrouded in moonlight fog, pondering silently over fables untold.
If you pause long enough, you might hear it—a breath, quiet as the fall of a leaf, brushing past your ear like a gentle but insistent reminder that all paths converge at a single point.
The secret isn’t spoken openly, but carried in dreams, always a fraction beyond tangible night skies. What is sought in fear or reverence is the pale insight, held back by wispy thresholds only the courageous dare cross.
Steps unmarked by the passage of time and wisdom tread softly, with an intuitive noise only the heart can manifest. A light flickers, and shadows do the dance of ancient storytellers, longing to brighten your forsaken dawn.