Beneath the silent veil of morning mist, a voice begins to weave tales of yore. Stories unheard, stitched together with the threads of dreams, and yet, something real lingers.
What is it, if not a memory of worlds untold? The fog wraps around us, offering glimpses of paths not taken, conversations not had.
"Do we walk through the fog, or does the fog walk through us?" whispered the traveler, his words dissolving into the haze that clung to the edges of the mind.
In this place, the line blurs—between shadows and light, between the tangible and the imagined. Each step a ripple, each breath an echo in an eternity of moments paused.