They say the path finds you, not the other way around. Somewhere in the dense underbrush, as the clock slipped into the hour of shadows, I stumbled upon the entrance. A thin archway woven from vines whispered of places unseen, and so the journey began, deeper than roots, into the unsolved enigma of moss-covered secrets.
Every step echoed with the scent of damp earth and ancient markers unseen, as though trodden by ghostly footprints. I felt the pulse of a thousand dormant eyes watching— the trees seemed to lean closer, their trunks ancient and wise yet filled with unspoken warnings. Conspiracies etched in bark, stories coded in the winds. And yet... the map, oh the map, had details that shouldn't be there.
My thoughts lingered upon the characters I never met at the forks in the trail, once promising companionship now replaced by a higher awareness of the uncharted. The streams babbled secrets of lost civilizations, while the canopy held conspiratorial whispers, a collage of conspiracies too astonishing for daytime minds. Why exactly were the squirrels acting so suspicious? Find out there.
With every turn, there appears to be less of a map and more an atmosphere. An unseen force—magnetic, ancient—guides or misleads, depending on your perspective. Breaths are drawn into the treetops where sunlight paints transient murals on bark that vanish at glance like an optical illusion of secrets.