Somewhere between the murmuring floorboards of forgotten tales lies the Fifth Realm — a liminal sphere where thoughts materialize as whispers. Have you ever paused, midstep, to collect those fragments before they dissipate?
Here in this domain, footsteps echo loudest when quietness surrounds.
We walk paths stitched from decisions half-deciphered, trailing behind echoes of choices unmade. In this space, the air shapes reflections not of light, but of ideas held too tender to be born. Is the reflection an illusion, a shadow of what once was or will never be?
Wander longer