The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and lingering fog, wraps around you, an embrace from the past. You walk, not forward, but through—a journey not of distance but of time, where each moment stretches like spun glass, delicate and ephemeral.
There is a bench here, or perhaps a ghost of one, worn smooth by the hands of countless dreamers. They sat where you sit now, musing in the muted tones of twilight, hearts heavy with the weight of unsaid words. Nearby, an old lantern swings gently in the breeze, casting shadows that dance to a rhythm only they understand.
Follow the Echo