In the valley below, where shadows dance under the silver moon, there lies a path. Paved not with stones, but with a shimmering light that none can see in the day. The locals speak in whispers of the unseen lights, which guide the lost to solace. Crickets serenade the dusk, their song a ritual, inviting the wanderers into the glow.
A figure cloaked in mist and mystery walks the path. It pauses, hand outstretched, catching the light that is not there. The air shimmers with stories untold. The figure knows the secrets that lie buried in the earth, roots tangled in history. Find the roots.
Beyond the valley, the hills whisper tales of ancient wanderers. They speak of travelers who followed the unseen lights to places unknown, their names carved in silence on the winds. A flutter of wings, a distant call. Hear the call.
What do the unseen lights desire? Are they guides or gatekeepers? The figure smiles, a knowing look that pierces through the veil of night. Perhaps we are all wanderers, seeking the light in the dark, a beacon in the fog of time. Become the guide.