Somewhere beneath the fabric of the day, in shadows kissed by twilight, there lies a path not taken, not seen, spoken of only in hushed reverence. I stumbled upon it once in a dream, where time itself wove threads of gold and silver, weaving songs of yesteryears. This story, this myth, whispered on the winds.
Fleeting memories catch like smoke in the eye. Fingers tracing ancient runes carved by wandering hearts, reaching back to touch what has long slipped away. Silence holds its breath, listening. In the folds of the darkening sky, truths tremble like leaves in autumn gales.
A voice, not mine, sings of rivers that have dried, of bridges lost beneath the dust. Faces flicker like candlelight in the corners of old rooms. Their eyes speak volumes, but no one dares translate the language of shadows and light.
And then there was the path under the hidden trails—the unseen pathways I have yet to tread. I remember the way the moon hung low that night, heavy with promises, illuminating roads untaken, sweet with the scent of rain and earth, calling me back to the whispers of the past that are always present.