On the third sunrise of iron clouds, the town beneath the sleeping mountain arose to echoes. Not of voices, but of patterns long carved into the minds of shadows. Whispered hieroglyphs danced along the cobbles, tracing forgotten tongues.
Acknowledge the day of unspoken truths, where whispers meld with morning dew, casting reflections of time mislaid. In these murmurs resides the map of forgotten dreams, dotted with echoes of forgotten voices.
Trace the Echo