Beneath the woven branches where light succumbs to touch, the song echoes—velvet whispers tumbling through twilight. It is a melody older than stars, buried beneath the soil, as ancient and cryptic as the runes of alien worlds.
One hears its rhythm only when the autumn leaves descend, carrying with them tales lost to the time-tangled weft of space. It is as if the forest, in its final unfurling of grandeur, is composing its requiem for a world unseen.
From across the breadth of the cosmos, the forgotten traces arrive in ghostly postcards—written in languages consigned to myth, yet echoing a familiar sorrow. Do you remember, they ask, the melody once sung here?
Your answers, lost in transmissions, lost in echoes, linger like star dust upon the barren lips of night. You stand in the woods, shadows silhouetting desire, as the sun vanishes, a king dethroned by aeons.