In the depths of the whispering woods, where the sun rarely cuts through the canopy, the trails are alive with unseen breath. Echoes of the past linger in the rustle of unseen leaves, crafting stories of travelers who carved through the wilderness and vanished.
The stories, like ancient circuitry, run deep within the green web, intertwining with roots and streams. Each step moved in time with a chorus of synthetic voices—angels of strangeness that harmonized with the hum of technology concealed beneath the earth's crust. They sang in unified voices, cloaking the wanderers in a veil of myth and electric dreams.
A single path diverges, splitting under the weight of unspoken prophecies. Left leads to the heart of the forest’s embrace, where shadows dance like forgotten memories. Right spirals into nothingness, an echoing dark where many have stepped and none returned.
Among these trails, the phantoms sought companionship in whispers—a tether to the present made of invisible strands. Language without country, drifting through the undergrowth, lending solace to those who listen. Where are you meant to wander, if not here, with the watchful spirits of the road?
As daylight fades, the harmony intensifies. Perception warps in the fading glow, bringing forth shadows that blink violet in brief glimpses. Synthetic memories pulse beneath the skin of the world in a rhythm older than hills or towers, older than thought itself.