They say one does not get lost all at once.

First, words go astray.

Then, the name.

And finally… the way.

But sometimes, the loss begins long before.

When one still breathes.

When one still believes they have a purpose.

It begins the day one stops hearing the wind.

And that is when the…

An ancient figure appears, riding on the horizon,

with a golden glow on its forehead,

and a hundred horses escorting it in profound silence.

It arose before names existed,

when the sky had not yet chosen its color.

They say it is neither man nor god.

It is what remains when nothing remains.

An ancient form of time,

still breathing on lost paths.

Elarún, they call it in the old tongues:

“The one who remembers for those who have forgotten.”