The words faded, whispered by the winds that trace the contours of forgotten valleys. In the twilight, they reach out, brushing against the ears of those who dare wander alone. Names of places and people drift like autumn leaves, held lightly on the breath of ancient tales.

Beneath the starlit sky, syllables fracture and reform. Not every truth is found in open daylight; some are secreted within wooden walls or under the silence of sleeping waves. Often, we must listen to what isn't said, the pauses between breaths—the echoes left by time's passage.