Somewhere in the corridors of thought, a door creaks open. Shadows of past contemplation cast lakes of reflections distorted by the curvature of time. What lies beyond the threshold, where light bends and echoes of phantom-footed wisdom tread softly?
Keys are not made of metal but of ideas, unlocking mysteries woven into the very fabric of existence. Each key turn an act of creation, destruction, or simple rearrangement of the cosmos.
The path is circular, spiraling inward as much as outward. Follow the footsteps, even when they seem absent. Listen to the whispers of the key that unlocks not doors, but understanding.