Listen closely; even the wind has secrets to share.
The map was drawn yet no ink, only whispers carried forth from midnight alcoves where echoes linger unshaped by time.
She wanders, endlessly reaching, pockets of forgotten strums resonate in her heart.
"Why does the wind sigh," she pondered aloud, "perhaps it's longing for all hidden depths?"
Night pulled back like a torn curtain to reveal a sky engrained with shimmerings stars, breaths reflected against the candid fold of forgotten dreams. Have they slumbered too long? Dusty constellations, re-arranged in well-lit corridors where memory fails, greeted her as strangers might greet in an unfamiliar city.
Boots chose their own paths, tracing patina of pathways long undisturbed, where brooks sang ballads no longer remembered but not forgotten, and the wind's lullaby entwined with the shush of ancient trees.