Stories Murmur

In the confluence of twilight and dawn, where whispers gather like dust upon old tales, the time speaks not in ticks, but in echoes. Here, in this fragment of existence, we float, not as sailors adrift, but as river stones, polished by the skein of water above.

"What flows beneath the silence of stars?" a child once asked, kneeling beside the shadow of a moonlit tree. The question was not his, but one cast from a net of histories, recast with every wanderer beneath that canopy, woven anew in the child's breath.

Beyond the murmuring reeds of this conscious river, paths diverge not in choice, but in the simple embrace of being. Let us, then, not choose but unveil the prefaces of our stories, like sheets of fog that line the mouth of every awakening.

Following the current, you may encounter other threads of these tales: into the nebula or perhaps a moment's pause in contemplation.

Though we trace paths unknown, our journeys are less maps than mirrors; reflections of what was already written in the eyes of those who dared gaze upon the infinite fabric with which dreams are sewn.