In the graying twilight, beneath realms where stones breathe with life untamed, the echo of a future long-gone rustles among the leaves. A time when horizons were painted not with fading sun, but with luminescent whispers.
Listen—I am but a shadow trailing the length of yesteryears, as constellations untold flicker above me, their light a memory of ages not yet begun. The palette of existence here is rich, woven with dreams that stitch the sky and earth, one whisper at a time.
Among these hues, a mirage dances—an ephemeral sculpture of light and mist, recounting sagas of moments imagined yet never realized. Beneath its crystalline form lies a secret: the depth of time, as intangible as the breeze, as certain as the stars.
Wander through these echoes, through the sepia-toned corridors of time's private gallery. Each step you take softens the distance, as if the ground itself remembers where you have been, where you are meant to go.