Some say time whispers through the tousled leaves of an autumn afternoon, weaving stories of spectral wanderers that beam through the mist.
At shimmering shores, where the clouds press against the horizon like forgotten dreams, echo repetitive footsteps—an infinite dance upon a never-ending sand.
"In the labyrinth of moments, every scene paints itself anew, yet familiarity shrouds them, sewing curtains across sepulchral vistas."
- Anonymous.
In this hazy web of time's loom, questions hang as delicate spider silk under a soft dawn glow—shattered images refract in pools.
Perhaps, below the murmur of the eternally sighing sea, murky relics of untouched past rest in the depths... They're incomplete, incoherent, remembrances unclaimed.
Seek out paths forgotten amongbirths or gaze into shadows uncarved, the endless corridors beckon your footfalls.
Eventually, one must ask: what becomes of who wander those repeating pathways? In the echo's grasp, we are all fragmented travelers, deciphering wafted motes suspended in the amber of an eternal now.
"The echo holds far more truth than pure silence."
- Unknown Nomad