Once, there was a whisper. It echoed through the corridors of the forgotten space. Once, it said the secret wasn't there, but somewhere else, hidden beneath the ancient roots of the silent cedar.
Again, it repeated. The whisper remembered. It spoke of autumns past and the warmth of elusive sun rays that cast shadows long, teller of stories half-remembered.
Once again, the whisper looped, a vinyl in perpetual motion. Cylinders spun in the darkness, recounting tales of places unseen, where the echoes gather like lost dreamers.
The whisper said, “seek where the old stones are, where surfaces tell stories not in words but in silence, where the carpet of fallen leaves murmurs truths.”
Listen closely... to the broken record, to midsummer's night, somewhere between dusk and dawn.