The ground trembles beneath, not with the ferocity of quake, but with the gentle persistence of roots grasping at memories; the slow, heavy descent into the embrace of the ancient soil. A journey begins not with steps but with the whisper of every past footprint.

In the shadows of a forest where light seldom chases away twilight, whispers of elder trees breathe life into forgotten tales. Each root diverging into the earth’s embrace, an unwritten chapter, a hidden story. Here, the past is a living entity, entwined with the pulse of the now.

Amidst these giants, travelers share the weight of gravity wells—vortices formed from unspoken grief and laughter. They anchor the soul, drawing it toward Earth’s tender bosom, away from the transient joys of the sky. Yet, these wells have a way of revealing, not obscuring, the truth of one’s lineage, the essence of a journey’s beginning, and the roots that hold one steady amidst the storm of existence.

Follow the tide where memories wash ashore, or heed the call of the echo that reverberates off time’s sacred walls. Each path is a thread, binding you to forgotten worlds, urging you back to where it all began, to roots yet unknown or those long abandoned.