Riversea Lane isn’t the end of the map — just the edge where silence grows saltier. A long, winding lane that slips gently from the cliffs of solitude to the skies of dreamers. On one side: the river, calm and sure. On the other — the endless reach of the sea.

It felt like walking along a riverbank. For a long time. The shore kept changing — sometimes rocky, sometimes soft, sometimes slippery. But you kept walking. Not stopping. Just walking beside the water. Watching the ripples, admiring them even.

Here, streets don’t walk — they dance. Slowly, like a dawn waltz where the wind is the conductor and the maples are cellos. At sunrise, Astoria smells of fresh newspaper ink, warm apple strudel, black coffee with milk and a hint of cinnamon, and just a trace of old ink on the fingers of a quiet reader.

Old Pine Way is not a street — it’s a forest whisper. A winding path among ancient trunks, where houses nestle close to the roots of towering pines. Their stone walls are steady, their mossy roofs bloom with flowers and memory. Everything here grows quietly — even the stories.

Most people, just like me, step into the world of NFTs with a flashlight in their hands and no map. It’s a space filled with mist — part wonder, part confusion. Everyone is trying to understand what it all means, and how to move through it without getting lost.

High in the hills of Lavillia, where the air is crisp and time flows a little slower, lies Mountaine View — a quiet neighborhood of warmth, stillness, and subtle charm. The houses here are mountain chalets — spaced with care, so each soul has room to breathe, and yet close enough to share the comfort of a nearby window glowing with life. Along the winding road, a stream sings its way between stones and seasons.

In the heart of Lavillia lies Joy Meadow — not just a square, not just a gathering place, but a living pulse of possibility. A space where concerts glow under starlight and stories are told that echo long after the applause fades. A round wooden stage welcomes anyone brave enough to share their truth, surrounded by an amphitheater built not of stone, but of warmth.

At the distance of ten deep breaths, there lived a gentle magical town. No roads to it were marked on any maps. And yet, anyone could find the way — a path each traveler paved on their own. All it took was to close one’s eyes, take a deep breath in and a soft breath out, do this ten times — and step inward. Somewhere there, around the chest, near the heart, that’s where the magical town of Lavillia quietly resided.

The Storyteller’s house was a little outside the city, but still close to everything.