The old wind whispered through the windowsill, a voice both familiar and new. It carried with it the scent of damp earth, of rain-soaked woodlands, of distant shores kissed by twilight.
We are but echoes of the past, murmured the shadows behind the velvet drapery, fragments of forgotten dreams lost in the reverie of a time that never was.
Outside, the autumn mist curled like gentle fingers around the remnants of yesterday’s sun. Worn pages of a diary turned silently in the breeze, revealing half-formed thoughts and ink smudges, as if yearning to speak of what was lost.
You remember it, don’t you? A place where the cobblestone path bends beneath the weight of unspoken memories, where the lanterns flicker with a light not entirely their own.
Will you follow? Follow the whispers that beckon from the hidden corners of time, and find what has been hidden in plain sight all along.