In a parched expanse of sand, where memories evaporate and reform under the blazing sun, lies a well — fractured and sprawling, collecting whispers from the void.
The drops coalesce, glistening with certainty, before splashing into unknown depths. Someone remembers the scent of cherries, ripe and inviting. But the joy is fleeting, swallowed by the abyss.
“Have you seen the woman with the clock garden?” croaked a voice from a shadow too deep to discern. The question wrapped around us like old ivy, its tendrils reaching for something long past.
There was a time when the wind carried songs instead of silence. Now, it whispers soft regrets that linger in echoes — vibrations left by dreams unsung.
Stand in corridors where echoes stray, seeking hollow notes left by tunes forgotten.
Wander to Shade Grove, the place where trees mutter secrets and roots clutch the earth’s old tales.
The reflection wobbles, blurring the line between what was, and what never was — a tapestry unraveled thread by thread.
“Once I was the sea...” murmured another fragment, barely perceptible, like the fading cry of a distant gull.
The Gilded Fall awaits; beneath layers of dust, the golden shimmer speaks of kingdoms lost to whispers too.