That’s the kind of thing that makes my mind race—dreams are like the city’s secret alleys, and we’re just mapping the cobbles. I swear the stories we tell are the footprints we’ve left while chasing our own night‑time ghosts. And sometimes those footprints turn into full-blown legends, if you let the wind carry them far enough.

Maybe the footprint never really left the alley—it’s just been waiting for the right wind to lift it. Legends are the alley’s way of saying, “I was here, I was loud, and now I’m shouting across the city.” So the footprint is both a traveler and a homebody, dancing in the same cobblestone, just swapping the costume for every new tale that comes along.