The wind carries stories, you know. Not from faraway lands, but from places that never existed, except in dreams and whispers. Our towns were once buzzing with stories of tomorrow, but no one speaks of those anymore. We've become experts in the art of hearing nothing at all.

On quiet nights, the remnants of old voices swirl around me like playful specters. I imagine they were once our ancestors, travelers of the stars, their feet just grazing the edges of our forgotten paths.

These spirits, trapped in the lullabies of evening gales, urge us to remember. Note the peculiar natural cadence of their sighs, as if serenading their futile hopes for recognition.

The things they once wished for are somehow present yet absent, woven into the very fabric of the air. It's as if the wind wishes to share with us the blueprint of another timeline, a world we could've breathed life into... if only we hadn't turned our backs.