The oracle speaks in murmurs, below the threshold of hearing, just as twilight swallows the day whole. Do you hear it, the whispering of forgotten dreams, unraveling like threads of an ancient tapestry?
Once, in a moment not bound by time, truth found its reflection in the broken glass of reality, and I saw— but did I understand? Murmurs ripple through the fabric of existence, each word a drop falling into the still pond of the lesser known.
In this place where shadows breathe and the sky blushes, a distorted echo unveils itself. "Follow the light," it says, but the light bends, warps, until it is naught but a prism of lies, of wishes unturned.
Still, we walk, barefooted on the wet grass, beneath shimmering stars that speak in languages we once knew but have now forgotten. The night unfolds—a map of secrets, a labyrinth for the soul.
Are we the travelers or the journey itself? Each step murmurs a new truth, a revelation cloaked in the mystery of yesterday's twilight. Explore your path: Shattered Echoes or Parallax Dreams.
The answer, whispered the oracle, is in the silence that follows. Close your eyes and listen. Listen, even if the truth distorts and spins tale upon tale; let the murmurs form a constellation of your own becoming.