The tides recede, revealing the hushed voices calling from the stone-cold abyss. A gentle whisper, as if the ocean itself breathes out forgotten memories, lingers in the salty air. Layers of time, folded and stacked, lie quietly beneath our feet, holding stories that no longer remain but hum with unspoken truth.
Here, in this quiet dance of submerged melancholy, one finds the remnants of what once was—a kingdom of undisturbed whispers, echoes reverberating in the hollow halls where no one dares tread. Who listens to the symphony of the lost? The hollow notes draped in shadow and mystery.
The whispers carry on the wind—a legacy of sand and stone. Their timbre coats the very essence of our understanding, turning it soft, malleable against the chill. To listen is to understand. To hear is to become part of the story, woven in as the tide pulls out, once again naked under the soft gaze of the moon.
Seek the truths hidden in moonlit chambers or perhaps wander to the glistening paths and lose yourself in the echo's embrace.