Once, when the sun hung a little lower in its skyward path, there were whispers in the cracks of parched land — whispers not meant for eager ears. The kind that thrummed with forgotten tunes and truths suspending in transient ether, weaving tales of yore and futures not yet written.
Listen to the tempos of the desert,
and they become your only compass,
soul suspended amid the cracked earth's echoes.
In these desolate words, a lone figure moved, shadowed and enduring. No name clung to this specter, perhaps no need for one when the whispers understood all without the currency of sound. To traverse the labyrinth of timeless echoes, one must become part of the song.
Each step reverberated through the dry land, sending ripples across memories etched in silica and neglect. Siestas of the sun would watch from above, yet unbothered by the rhythms below. The universe smiled in secret, revealing only portions of herself through hint and haze.