You sit in the hushed corners of your mind, where echoes bounce off the walls of time. There was a room, you remember. The air thick with knowledge unspoken, and yet it is audible, like murmurs tracing ancient stones.
The oracle spoke through the veil—a thin membrane separating the now from what once was. When the words fell, they were like small stones cast into still waters, rippling outwards in invisible patterns. You ponder if their meaning is captured forever within those undulating edges.
From afar, you heard someone say, "The truth lies in the question itself.
" A simple remark, yet it holds a weight you haven't yet grasped. Like a feather caught in a tempest, it dances away from reason.
And yet, reality bends here, at the oracle's feet. It molds itself into shapes that are familiar yet foreign: a child's laugh, the shimmer of a mirage, or perhaps a memory you never made.
Walk deeper into the whispers. Let them guide you like a lighthouse in fog, revealing shores unseen and precipices unimagined.