In the year of the gilded apple, amidst the interstice of foliage and forgotten hallways, an echo unfurled—rumors of the cerulean beast, weaving through ancient oaks, whispering secrets only the soil understood. The sound of gravel shifting under unseen feet reverberated through the corridors of time, etching its story in the marrow of history's spine.
Pages unfurl like long-lost migrations of spring, carrying scents of nostalgia and petrichor. Ink-stained whispers of forgotten lullabies, buried beneath sand and ash, speak of silhouettes that danced without form. Their laughter—now silence—lingered in the dew that clings desperately to the dawn of new beginnings.