Whispers of the past linger like fading dreams—soft, intangible, yet forever etched in the silence.
As I traverse the cold stone corridors of this ancient temple, I find comfort in its age. It holds stories not told, secrets buried beneath layers of dust and time. Here, amidst the crumbling columns, one can almost hear the echoes of prayers once fervently shouted to gods long forgotten.
In the quiet moments, I wonder how many souls have sought solace within these walls, each leaving behind fragments of their essence.
Near the altar, a single ray of sunlight pierces the gloom, illuminating a patch of floor that gleams with the dust of centuries. I sit, cross-legged, and let the warmth envelop me. Time feels differently here—like an old friend whose presence is known but whose form is elusive.
Every heartbeat merges with the echoes of the past, a reminder of the transient beauty of existence.
There's an inscription on the wall, barely legible, that speaks of journeys and destinations, of beginnings and endings. I cannot decipher the language, but the sentiment is clear. We are all travelers, wandering through the vastness of time and memory.
As the afternoon sun begins to set, the temple transforms. Shadows dance across the stones, and the air grows cool. I rise and make my way back, leaving behind the echoes for others to discover.
Path Stone Murmurs