Unfurling beneath the ancient willow's boughs, like a moth darting through shadows, a truth spoke to those who dared echo its name. In dewdrop clarity, slipped into the dreamer's haze, lay secrets unknown to sunlit realms—where specters paint stories on whispers of moonlit silk.
On the cobbled streets of Olkhon, nameless, wandering, stories of false ghosts spilled into fishermen's nets. Hidden in a dark cellar, myths fused with earth-under tales and the scent of forgotten mariner's breeze; unmarked like pebbles in the stream, untold.
Towering above the Eternal Garrison, where stony faces glanced heavenward, the mist wrapped each tale with gilded edges. Light banished, yet heart's quietude reigned; ponderous were the echoes through spectrums disguised as mere air. Such specters—not condemned, rather protectors of myths-soaked tales—breathe silence, absorb color, and weave wandering paths where none tread before.