Shadows try to speak, in the lingering mist, but I am adrift.
Between silent echoes of yesterday and the uncertain breath of tomorrow. Murmurings of forgotten paths, unwritten, call from the timewarp beyond my gaze.

The fog envelops the roots of trees, where dreams whisper, luring the unwary to what lies beneath. Beneath. Layers of thought pile like sediment, losing sense in their endless spiral. Are we living in stories? Or are stories living in us?

I find my reflection in droplets, ephemeral and momentary; it forms, then fades. The truth obscured — a mere phantom, slipping through my fingertips. Yet, there it lingers, a haunting promise, half remembered.

Will I find peace in these woods, or will the whispers weave around me until I, too, become like them?
I search, I listen, I become. Pathways unfurl in the unfolding whisper of fog.