By the old oak tree (the one half-carved by time's relentless flow), there lies a path unworn by many. Not haunted by feet but by memories that linger long after you turn away. The leaves murmur tales of places unseen as wind dances their dance—a spectral sound.
One step, and the woods speak, imploring with an echo you've read before. Step by step, secrets bury themselves deep in the soil, into roots and stones, yet no eyes can see their resting places. Only solace in knowing the earth remembers what we forget.
Follow deeper still, until echoes turn whispers and whispers fade falls below. Moments breathe between each tread, tangible yet unseen. The awkward paths waver and shimmer, richly familiar to those who listen with ears long opened.
What songs the shadows sing, chorused wickedly or woven through the tapestry of forgotten paths, you ask. Their secrets lie in answered questions, mysteries entwined in the unseen mist.
“An old man once said…” ends every story. But these stories have no end, and these whispers have no voice, only the gentle creak of time pushing constantly onward.Embrace the spectral uncertainty, find your own path into the sighs of unseen stories waiting quietly.