In the valley of the unseen, where whispers of the ancients twist through ceaseless fog, lies the map neither wide nor small but forgotten and vast. It breathes languidly under layers of myths as if quietly waiting. The journey had begun before this moment, or so the echoes insist, yet each footstep paralleled in a waking dream unfolds a blankness, not unlike the murmur of stars or unmarked constellations drifting beyond.
The lines etched across its surface are spectral highways, echoing with fleeting voices of the seekers; their quests are unending yet enshrined here, in pauses of the perpetual unknown. A forgotten map, perhaps, or a map of forgotten things. The wanderers sketched it on snug parchment; the ink was made of winds and sold dreams, untouched by waking eyes.
Above all, the journey mutters a spectral truth—no path diverges as it flows into itself, in the great cycle without end, where the beyond meets the unseen horizon. Here lies the phantom cartography, sans destination, sans entry or escape, echoing through the silent-deep heart of wandering wonders.