The whisper came from the forgotten corner of the market square, where shadows spoke of things that were and were not. I never saw her face, but her voice wove a tapestry of silken secrets across the air.
In the golden haze of dawn, a figure walked beside me, barefoot on the dewy grass. We spoke in reflections, in images caught in the corners of our eyes — never quite in front, never quite behind.
There exists a path beneath the winding boughs of the Whispering Oaks. Only those attuned to the tremors of forgotten time may find it. A place where all paths converge and diverge in the same breath.