In the dim glow of a flickering lantern, the alchemist sits. His hands, once steady, tremble with the weight of an invisible melody, a song played not in harmony but in reverse, through a labyrinth of echoes.
He remembers the potion, a simple concoction meant to illuminate the soul's deepest desires. Yet, the pot boiled over, spilling secrets best left untold. Now, his thoughts drift like leaves on a stream, swirling, circling, forever chasing the stars in their descent.
And as he stirs the cauldron of memories, a hollow chime rings out, calling him home. The spirals dance across the parchment, each curve a reminder of the cycle unbroken, unseen yet omnipresent.
Where does it all begin? The question lingers, echoing in reverse, a refrain unsung. The alchemist's fingers trace the air, conjuring faint illusions of a world where melody reigns, free from the shackles of time.
He closes his eyes, the darkness a canvas for his imagination. A world of color, of sound, of reverse melodies that play on, beneath the layers of reality—awaiting his gentle touch.