In the shadow of the sun-kissed ridges—those bastions of warmth and fleeting beauty—lies an irony as old as the rocks themselves. A place where time holds no dominion, yet memories fade like autumn leaves caught in a bitter wind. Here, among the gentle slopes, reality is but a mirage.
Once, the ridges sang of adventure, of golden horizons and promises unspoken. Now, they echo with the steps of solitary wanderers, their names etched in dust, forgotten. The irony dances in shadows, mocking the kiss of the sun—a kiss that knows no warmth for the lost.