In silent recesses, in that small room where the walls listen and the air bends, legacies are murmured. With each inhale, they gather strength, rising like the mist over sleeping waters.
But why do we whisper? Why do we carry the weight of voices past on lips untouched by time? Is it the need for company, for hands not our own to guide us through paths overgrown with brambles of modernity?
Close your eyes for a moment—listen. The walls have stories; the space between words is vibrant, alive. In that vibrant pulse lies the secret of knowing, the secret of becoming, the echo of eternity.
There was a story about a circle. A circle that was drawn, then redrawn, echoing upon itself in the quiet hours of dawn. And as each line was etched, the murmurs swelled—a mariner at sea without a compass, forever tracing circles around the sun, seeking home in destinations imaginary.
Beware of the paths that whisper of destiny, they say. Paths that lure with softly murmured legacies. And yet, whose whispers are they? Are they ours, or do they belong to phantoms that linger at the edge of sight, forever unseen, forever just out of reach?