In the hushed chambers of existence, where silence wields profound authority, there are whispers. Old echoes hang like unburned incense, their truths too sacred to speak, too quiet to hear.
The footprints trace paths through dreams not embarked, their forms transient, delicate artifacts of a journey that almost was. Each step, a question without answer, dissolves beneath the tide of time—a tide that ebbs and flows, never wavering in its purpose, indifferent yet aware.
Visit the places where these whispers originate, where the heart's silence speaks louder than a cacophony of truths.