Beneath the twilight, where the sand dances with the echo of the waves, lies a tale spun by the ancients. Faint traces of conversations long forgotten ripple through the tides, as if the ocean possesses a language no human tongue can comprehend.
The storyteller, an aged figure cloaked in moisture and salt, sits at the edge. His voice a mere tremor against the louder pulsations of the sea. "Long ago," he begins, "before the pillars of cities stood tall under the sun..."
A crescent moon bathes the world in a glow softer than dawn, cradling the voice of the tides. These echoes—ancient as the stones they call home—hold whispers like a compass guiding one through forgotten verses of existence.
Proceed to another shore or perhaps travel to the forgotten latitude"You have to listen," the elder insists, "listen beyond the myth lodged in history, to it gently unraveling in the rhythm of the cosmos..."
Here, at the edge of the world, time dilates, and stories are not chained to starting or ending places but move endlessly, back and forth, between imagination's open doors.