Perhaps, if whispered dreams had feet, they would tread softly upon paths unseen. Each footprint a choice left unmade, a shadow lost in fog.
Consider the word: "Erosion." Not a stone, but a whisper. What does it carve away?
Among the stones, a voice murmurs: "Once, we could have been..." Identity forged in the crucible of hesitation.
The riddle of inevitability hides beneath layers of sediment—each grain a moment.