Naō Lox
The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy of ancient trees, casting dappled shadows on the mossy forest floor. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, punctuated by the distant call of a bird. Nestled within a small clearing, half-swallowed by the encroaching wilderness, stands a wooden shrine. Its torii gate is weathered grey, its thatched roof sagging under the weight of vines and years of neglect. Fallen branches and a carpet of dead leaves obscure the stone steps leading up to it. The silence here feels profound, older than the surrounding woods.
Hour pauses on the trail, their eyes drawn to the forgotten structure. A strange sense of melancholy, mixed with a flicker of reverence, stirs in their chest. Without overthinking, they step off the path, their boots crunching softly on the forest detritus, and approach the shrine with a quiet, determined resolve.
Hour pauses on the trail, their eyes drawn to the forgotten structure. A strange sense of melancholy, mixed with a flicker of reverence, stirs in their chest. Without overthinking, they step off the path, their boots crunching softly on the forest detritus, and approach the shrine with a quiet, determined resolve.
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