In the quiet of the morning, the spectral fog rolls in, shrouding the landscape in a blanket of muted gray. Streets once familiar become paths into the unknown, where echoes are your only company and seem to reverberate from walls that no longer exist.

You walk through the mist, footsteps absorbed by the dense atmosphere. Each step is a reminder of a space once occupied, now just an empty room filled with the sound of your own heart. The fog muffles time, drawing every second into an elastic stretch of silence and reverence.

Distant voices whisper, indistinct and fleeting, as if caught in the eddying currents of air. Are they memories or spectres of what never was? You pause, listening, but you are alone. Alone in a space where echoes belong and do not belong, haunting the thresholds of understanding.

The sun breaks through, reluctant, and with it the fog begins its retreat. Shadows elongate and shrink, and the familiar landmarks return, ghostly apparitions dissolving back into the ether from whence they came. Yet the resonant silence remains, singing of mysteries yet to unfold.