Shadows danced in the dusk; silhouettes shifted beneath amber trees, where whispers lingered only a moment before melding with the wind. Elara, drawn by the phantoms of twilight, followed the ribbons of mist that curled among the roots like lost memories.
"Do you hear them?" she asked, her voice barely more than a breath. A figure blurred into focus—a man cloaked in twilight, eyes like shards of forgotten stars. "They speak, yet few listen; fewer still understand," he replied, the words echoing as if from a great distance, a truth sourced in silences.
They wandered through the camphor haze, stories etched into the air by unseen hands. Each step revealed fragments of tales woven through sunlight and shadow, shared by the wandering mist. The world felt tender, fragile, as if it too might vanish like the whisper of a dream.
In the end, they stood before a doorway thrumming with echoes—an archway draped in veil-like fog. Beyond lay realms unsung, stitched together by the faintest breath of a lullaby. The man extended his hand, an invitation to the path where stories flowed like rivers of night.