In a hospital room somewhere, an old clock ticks quietly in the corner, its shadows stitching tales onto the walls. These shadows, silent and significant, observe a small child holding an automaton. The little metal figure creaks and whispers secrets that shimmer on the edge of reality.
The child's eyes reflect worlds unseen, realms detangled not by hands but by whispering shadows that understand without ever needing to know.
"Is it real?" the child asks the shadows, their voice barely more than a murmur.
The shadows bend slightly, a gesture of acknowledgement. In that fleeting motion, the line between what is and what could be wavers, encompassing stories never told but always present.