Do you hear it? The rustling murmurs echoing in the cavern of your mind. It feels as though the leaves speak your name, a name you don’t recall in daylight, but here it’s as if whispered by an old lover, a far-off friend. Always drifting on the edge of memory, those whispers.
Once, there was a path, or maybe it was more of a feeling, a sensation that wrapped around you like ivy on an ancient oak. Have you walked it before? The wooden signposts—weathered, worn, their messages cryptic—stand sentinel, guardians of stories untold and paths forgotten. Look closely; they may beckon you with familiar urgencies, a silent plea echoing through your bones.
And in the distance, the call of a bird, or is it a laugh, a song, fragmentary like your thoughts, like echoes of dreams that slip through your fingers when you reach for them. It's all so familiar, yet distinct, so oddly strange. Everything old, everything new—a circular dance, endlessly moving yet frozen in time, a waltz among the shadows.
Perhaps you wish to follow these whispers further? The Pathless Forest
or venture to Echoes of the Past.