In the vast stillness that existed before recorded history, whispers formed the air; timeless tales woven into the very fabric of the untouched lands. These whispers, guttural and soft, floated across wide expanses untouched by civilization, seeking only to linger in the cool backward glance of unmade memory.
Before the visible timelines branched like luminous rivers in the night sky, there was a harmony known only to the ancients, audible in the rustling of dried reeds by forgotten shores. Here, echoes are not mere repetitions of sound but reverberations of what once was, resounding in a vacuum, waiting for a listener.
The chorus of winds carried these tales, as did the silent march of shadows across the land. Knowledge not etched upon stone or clay, but inscribed eternally in the shifting patterns of nature.
To ponder this age is to embrace a paradox: it was an age without memory and yet one suffused with profound presence. The echoes, once heard, guide one through the abyss of time's ceaseless flow, revealing remnants of unheard symphonies.
Thus, in the hollow chamber of existence before time itself, where the earth's spine curls in tender anticipation, we find ourselves cloaked in the whisper of forgotten dawns.