The landscape stretches, unending, woven from threads of whispered shadows, gently embracing the horizon. Clouds lick the earth's edge, bleeding into the sky's eager reach, caressing the unseen path.

Silent echoes ripple beneath the skin of the world — a song unsung, a forest of thoughts left in the tide. Roots intertwine, folding and unfolding, folding time onto itself.

Ever watchful, the mountains hum a lullaby, fragments of dreams lost amid the mist. Forgotten lands whisper of fruitless wanderings, of journeys woven in the tapestry of silence.

In the stillness, a single crow notes the paradox, carving the air with its cry. In this world, calls become painted strokes on an unseen canvas.