In the heart of this mist, where paths are veiled with dreams and shadows, the wind dances. Whispering secrets, remember stains, and unfinished stories. A tale told not in words but in the gentle hum of the fog blanketing the hills.
Do we glide through surfaces or are we the echoes themselves? A question barely spoken, drowned in the rhythm of unseen feet. The ground, a distant memory, shimmers like liquid truth.
Navigate to the Maze of Reeds
Witness the Spectral Waltz
Follow the Echoes of the Forest