In every flicker of light, shadows dance—a ballet of obscurity and form. They sculpt moments, etching echoes into the air, whispers that linger long after the light shifts, leaving an imprint on the heart.
I heard a shadow speak once, its voice a soft susurrus, like the rustle of autumn leaves. It told stories of places unseen, of dreams forgotten, and the tales of those who walked before.
What stories do your shadows tell you when the world grows quiet? Are they the echoes of your own thoughts, or something other, something deeper?
Contemplate the shadows and follow their whispers:
Listen to the echoes
Or step into their tales:
Enter the shadow story