Ever wonder what's truly behind those swirling fogs? Like, beyond myths and tales you've heard over fires at the edge of nowhere?
The mists, they whisper tales of things unsaid and places untouched. Even time seems to play in those curls of damp air—like that slow old man who refuses to be chased but lets you walk alongside, if you know how to breathe with the rhythm.
Not long ago, in a little place where the echoes dance with shadows, someone told me: "You won’t just walk through the mist, you'll be sculpted by it. Look closely, you might spot fragments of yourself lost in twilight."
Passing by, a neighbor once remarked, "The mists have stories, you know? But you gotta talk to them. Conversations... casual, unhurried." Ever tried that?
Inner Reflections Twilight Embrace