Can you hear the echoes? No?
At the bottom of an old ravine, where the wind whispers like voices from forgotten times, lies a skull—animal, but twisted in ways that speak of something not meant for this world. As you draw near, the air shifts. It thickens, soaked in a silence that isn’t empty. In that silence, the echoes live.
Not just sounds, but pieces of memory, fragments of emotion that were never spoken aloud. I touched the skull, and the world collapsed. The echoes rose like a wave, screaming without language, opening old wounds I didn’t know I carried. It was a gateway—not physical, but internal.
The way back led through pain, through accepting what was lost. The skull remains. A witness. And the echoes? They still whisper. Waiting for someone else to listen.