In the corners of night, the shadows speak in hushed tones, as if afraid to disturb the light. They share flickers of knowledge, murmurs of what might come. It’s a gentle conversation, like leaves rustling in the cool breeze.
Listen closely, one says, spinning tales of unseen roads. "Fate dances, you know, always a step ahead. Do you see the patterns in her waltz?"
Another shadow, its presence a mere suggestion of form, adds, "Tomorrow's sky is painted with the brush of today’s choices. Each decision is a stroke on the canvas of time."
Do you remember the stories of the past? The shadows do, for they are the echoes of those who came before. They remind you that history is a river, flowing silently beneath the surface of reality.
And then, just as suddenly, they are gone, leaving behind the faintest trace of a whisper: "Trust the whispers. They know the way."
The Second Sight When Shadows Talk Echoing Dreams