Somewhere deep below the forest floor, beneath the weight of a thousand unknown footsteps, the songs of time linger—not in the ticking of clocks, but in the unmoving silence, in those places where your voice becomes lost, echoing back to you like a memory waiting to unfold.
I found an old record player, its wood splintered and decked with dust, the kind that begs stories from the spindle's sigh. It played a tune that seemed both familiar and utterly foreign, like visiting a home you’ve never known, but which belongs to you somehow, enfolding you in tender melancholy.
Time has a way of singing when no one's around to hear it. Sometimes, it whispers through the hollow chambers of a once-beloved song, a melody that dances just out of reach, orchestrated by moments we forget.
More than just tales, these echoes are warnings, prayers, and incantations, twisted remnants afloat in ancestral currents. Each note a historical footstep fading into the distance, each silence a passage, a bridge uncrossed, leading to untold journeys.
Listen closely, they say, and you'll hear your future whispering back, a conversation paused mid-sentence, your voice twined with another's, your story encoded in the strands of now. Turn to simpler truths.
Under the leaves, buried, lies the song of ages—unfathomable, profound. It weaves through breaths and sighs, a constant refrain in the procession of days: tender, withheld, but never silent.