Beneath the whisper of the stars, a tale untold simmered. The echo of a voice, sweet as autumn rain, drifted past the edges of consciousness. It spoke of wanderers who rode the breeze—seekers of forgotten paths and ancient trees.
"Follow the feathers," they said, "wherever you see them dance." These phrases, like ghostly imprints, were left by those who tread softly upon the wind.
In the heart of a fog-choked dream, a radio crackled. Its static spun stories of worlds gone awry, jumbled whispers adrift in a sea of silence. Listen closely and you might hear the metallic hum of an engine longing for lost skies.