As the mist ebbs, the edges of tomorrow grow murky with forgotten echoes.
Once the forest door creaked open into endlessness, now it stands ajar, inviting not with warmth, but with a chill of unknowing.
Charted by starlight and moonlit whispers, footsteps awaken binding runes.
You become the wanderer, tracing loops of time undone—chronicles woven in désole pastels.
Alongside brooks that babble secrets and mysteries, thorns knit visages from airy notions.
Jara the specter dances—but she calls no name.