In the hollow glade of forgotten words, an echo surfaces. It glides over the furrowed brow, seeking, always seeking... The murmurs of ancestors are woven in twilight beneath the eternal oak.
"Speak, shadow."
Stitch by thread, the incantations float down currents unseen—
a tug at the veil of yesterday, where green lamps flicker with spectral fire.
And thus, the oracle's voice is found, not in the syllables of myth, but in the rustle of leaves. Who, they ask, stands amidst the chorus of silence? An ancient seeker, at the convergence of shadows.