In the hollow clearing where light barely treads, a single echo stood suspended, encased as if in amber.
It was whispered by myriad tongues – fragmented, forgotten stories. Renowned not for tales of bravery or gallantry, but for secrets left untold and paths unchosen.
A woman stood at the edge of the clearing, revering the hesitation carried in the rustle of leaves and grains of time. Her presence sparked no change in the cyclical inertia of this space.
A place perpetually caught between forgotten shadows and lingering dawns, where time did not carve valleys, but paused, absorbing each echo like a tactile gasp.
Alongside her thoughts, mingled otherworldly companions: figments poised at a diameter of a breath away from touch. They whispered echoes of other paths leading distant with uncertainty.