Under the whispering night, melodies linger, weaving through the cracks of silence. Old songs, fading, are swept away by the moon's tender light—a reflection of voices past.
History, like an ancient cloak, bears dust and yellowing memories—each fold concealing stories meant to be forgotten, yet longing, always, to be remembered, touched, whispered to the winds anew.
There are those who walk these paths in dreams, seeking echoes, chasing shadows of what once was. Histories unrecorded, erased by time's deliberate hand, leave spaces—vast, empty, rich with longing.
On moonlit nights, one might hear the softest of songs—echoes of lives intertwined with the earth, echoes of moonlit dances upon the wet grass, silent but profound as the stars themselves.