In the hushed moments when the shadows grow tall and the light recedes into whispers, I find myself wandering. This place, this realm of whispers and echoes, knows my name as well as I know the scent of decay that lingers in the air. They call it dusk, I call it home.
Each step against the cobbled path sends shivers through the core of the earth. The ground beneath remembers, as all things do, the stories I carry. Tales woven into the fabric of time, unraveling with my every breath.
"What lies beyond?" they ask, though none are present but the voices in my head, familiar and haunting. The answer is always the same—a flicker, a shadow, the glimpse of a silhouette retreating into the distance. Answers are never found, only questions and more questions.
Do you wish to join me, dear traveler? Through the ruins of the forgotten or perhaps into the abyss of contemplation? The whispers carry you, whether you wish to go or not.
I see you standing on the precipice, gazing into the void. It stares back with eyes as old as the stars, and for a fleeting moment, you feel its embrace. An invitation to step lightly into the deep, where silence reigns and the soul is free to wander.
Remember these words when you feel the path beneath your feet change to dust: the next journey is not to be taken, but to be endured. A winding road with no end, only beginnings masked in shadows.