As the sun dips behind an unseen horizon, shadows stretch their fingers across the forest floor, weaving tales of whispers long forgotten. In this place, where trees arch like ancient sentinels, you encounter a sense of having walked this path before. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and moss, a perfume of history that clings to your skin.
Each rustle of leaves, each snap of a twig underfoot, echoes through the corridors of time, reverberating with the laughter of voices not your own. These are the paths of Darkwood, where the familiar meets the surreal, and reality dances just out of reach.
You find a clearing, where light spills like silver, illuminating forgotten memories. The ground is softened by years of leaf litter, a cushion for the weary traveler. Here, time pauses, allowing moments to stretch and collapse under the weight of their own significance.
In the distance, a figure stands, cloaked in shadow. Do you know them? Have you spoken before? These questions linger, unanswered, as the figure turns and beckons. You step forward, drawn by an invisible thread.