In the shadowed banks, where the sun dares not to linger long, streams are alive with whispers. These rivulets, trickles of ancient songs, straddle the line between murmur and melody. Children, with eyes wide and minds racing beyond stars, often find themselves enchanted here.
Yet there is a shadow beneath the surface, a glimmer of something neither wholly right nor wrong, but yet unknown. Be it the fey creatures lost in song or echoes of voices past that coil and unfurl as mist, none can tell. They only listen.
Once, there was a boy who claimed to speak to the streams, his voice a soft plea to the gurgling waters which seemed to listen in rapt silence. What he sought from the stream's whisper, we dared not ask; for some truths crave darkness and fear the light.
Follow The Lost Breeze Secret Paths of Echoes Runes Written In Water