Mornings in the valley, when the world is still sleepy and the sun is just a promise on the horizon, the wind carries stories. Tales of places abandoned, forgotten by footprints and ink no longer recorded.
“There's a pond,” it says, “where frogs have forgotten the song of the moon.” It speaks in hushed tones, as if afraid to disrupt the quiet peace of the long-lost place. You pause, hearing the faint croaks and the ripple of what could be water, untouched for ages.
Follow the old path near the decaying oaks, where roots grip the earth with tenacity but branches let go to the sky. There, the whispers grow dense and thick, like fog enfolding warmth.
The secrets rustle like the dried leaves in autumn. They reveal themselves only to those who venture alone, seeking echoes of a world that once was, or perhaps a world that could still be, if only the right chords are struck.
"Turn back or proceed," they murmur, in languages older than the hills. The decision clings to the listener as gently as the mist settles on the dawn.
Enter the murmur of ancient stones, where grains of history slip easily past in time's relentless current. Listen to what was buried in the hush.