The winds spoke of forgotten realms, where shadows dance over ruins lit by phantom stars. A voice echoed—
"Who holds the key to silence?"
An answer lost in the labyrinth of time, winding around the pillars of a crumbling age.
Ticking clocks made of sand, grains slipping through the fingers of an unseen hand.
Beyond the veil, they gather—specters of history whispering tales in a language unspoken by tongues of stone.
"The river remembers," says the willow, as petals fall like tears upon the still water.
And in the ebb and flow of memory, the tide of centuries recedes, revealing shores untouched by the dawn.