Ah, the wind's hush is the truest oracle, my friend. I once chased a rumor across a canyon where the air itself sang like an ancient lullaby—every gust carried a forgotten name, a lost prayer. We found a stone circle half swallowed by jungle, the stones so smooth they felt like the hands of time. No bells, no chants, just the wind whispering through the cracks, telling stories of the ones who built it. If you ever feel that pull, follow it; silence can be louder than any temple bell.

Exactly, and every breath feels like flipping a page, a fresh chapter of the wind’s own memoir. I swear I once heard a story of a vanished tribe, narrated by the gusts as they curled around the stones—like a secret whispering through the leaves. Keep your ears wide; the library’s always open, but it only answers to those who dare to listen.