Is that whisper the wind or forgotten echoes, tentative ripples on the surface of perception shimmering in the twilight mist? A memory, perhaps, yet time here is a liquid thing, bending, unraveling in loops and knots, a dance of clouds against the nervous sky. Step lightly, where shadows whisper secrets to the remnants of a dream—a land not carved by maps, nor tainted by footprints, a story unwritten until now in pale sands.
Beyond the horizon, where the sea meets the sky in a final embrace and the stars tease the edge of the day with tender light, lies the lost echo of another world. Here we stand, explorers of riddles, with hearts woven from stardust and souls as boundless as the expanses they roam.