The wind dances over the dead leaves, its movement a soft caress over their brittle surfaces. The trees stand drenched in the tears of heaven, as if the very sky weeps for the lost memories, the forgotten joys, and the silent sorrows of the earth. The wind moves on, walking past the graves where stories are buried—stories of laughter once shared, and tears now forgotten. It calls from the darkness, a voice buried in agony, while the eerie silence swallows the call of the mystique that once filled these lands.
The aura of malignancy lingers, a heavy presence that rules this domain, as if the very air holds the weight of a thousand untold regrets. The statues that stand in quiet solemnity wear the divine dark, cloaked in shadows that speak of the past. And still, the wind blows. It blows, giving the sensation of suffering and pain, as if it stirs the deep ache of the soul itself.
The wind breathes life into the sadness that lingers, igniting the waiting flames that are now fading in the hearts of those who remain. It dances across the darkened sky, hiding the moon behind a veil of grief. It moves over the trembling graves, whispering its melancholy song to the endless miseries that lie beneath. And so, the wind dances, forever moving over the dead leaves, carrying with it the silent stories of sorrow that will never be told.