"Did you ever see the path near the star-wooded marsh?" asked the echo of an evening long since past.
Somewhere between the shadows and the sleeping dusk, voices linger like moths to a flame: delicate, disembodied, and yearning.
The ground whispered secrets of ages gone. Carved in the dew-tipped grass, stories unfolded:
"I remember the watchtower, and the way it whispered to the winds..."
Sitting on the cusp of time, where moments blend like colors on a forgotten palette, the truth flickers.
Another voice cracks the silence: "They say the map was drawn by a dreamer who never woke up."
Whispered longings