Among the tangled roots and curling vines, a path lies that most have forgotten or never knew. It's the sort of place where stories hang in the air like morning mist—thick, but never always in steps. Erased phrases in the earth’s diary trace footsteps from long ago; they’re called echoes now.
The merchant and his secret maps, were they ever genuine?
Casual observers, if any were there to be, might mistake it for a beauty untamed—a sanitarium of woods grown over the stitches of concrete. Yet, each stone has a confession; every turning leaf a shy smile. Some even say the trees murmur forgotten names, like a lullaby people forgot how to sing.
(In the day before roads, a name like Alaric could be as common as the clouds.)
But linger long enough to see the shadows dance. To hear the lost phrases of travelers who sped by on invisible wheels. It’s impossible, noteworthy—no one under the street lamps would have realized that path whispered back.
And not far away, a curious object lies half-buried; its purpose unknown, its origins shrouded in layered stories—remembered by the night and the stars who overhear its tale.