The temple stands, weary and worn, worn like the cloak of a wandering sage, who whispers secrets only the wind can carry away from the hollow stones. Listen, can you hear? No, not the birds, not the rustle of ancient leaves, but something more, a rhythm, a pulse beneath your consciousness, like scattered echoes calling you home. The halls unfold like the pages of a book you never read, inked by the forgotten voices of those who wandered before, dreamers all, dancers in a charade of light and shadow.

This is not a place, not a time, but a memory, a dream-kissed fog, settling around the temple's corroded edges, where sunlight spills like liquid gold, pooling at your feet, and you wonder if the stones are alive, breathing memories into the air, weaving invisible threads that tether you to the stories left untold.

Am I here now? Or somewhere else entirely? Did the phantom footsteps guide your path, tracing lines in the dust that will never settle? Feel it, the way the air shimmers, as if the past was reaching out, fingers brushing against your reality, a spectral reminder of paths intertwined, audibles and invisibles alike, speaking words you long forgot how to say.