In the shade of a cerulean sky, where murmurs of twilight linger, a pathway unfurls beneath the feet of memory. Its cobblestones are etched with questions, unasked yet known, sprawling into the distance like waves retreating from a shoreline of time.
Listen, they say, to the echo of steps unmade, where the forest bathes in mist and shadows dance to a tune only the stars remember. Beyond the horizon, where the sun kisses the earth goodbye, lies a city of glass—each reflection a fragment of a dream lost to wakefulness.
Here, the clock ticks in reverse, urging those brave enough to wander its streets to reclaim the stories of slumbering worlds. But beware, for not all tales are kind, and the questions that dwell within are like specters in the fog, waiting to be heard.
A voice calls from the cobbled alleyways, resonating with the laughter of forgotten children. An old man with a beard like silver smoke offers a riddle:
"What is born in silence, yet sings in the daylight? What lives in the dreamer's mind, yet seeks the sun's embrace?"
Answering this riddle might unlock the secrets of the unasked—those lingering doubts that hover just out of reach, like a melody forgotten at dawn. In the glimmer of twilight, the whispers grow louder, guiding you toward the path of questions yet to be asked.
Dare to step onto the path to nowhere, or perhaps explore the echoes in the hollow.