Beneath the earth's crust, where light dares not tread, murmurs the ancient orchestra of roots entwined. Each root, a word; each word, a tale of forgotten years.

Here lies the echo, an almost tactile presence, weaving through the underworld with whispers mild. Listen closely, and ye may discern the songs of yore.

In this realm, shadows are the writers, their pens etched in the bark of memory, inked by the damp earth. The shadows know all, for they have seen the sun rise and set upon the same ground, countless times.

Gaze into the unknown and follow the trails of quiet footsteps, left by those who wander without name or face.