In the cavernous dearth of memory, where whispers of color fade into gray, the balloons lingered, suspended in dreams woven with gossamer thread. Here, the dust settles not on ground, but in air thick with unsaid words, forming bubbles that dance with spectral light—an ephemeral waltz.
The shadows speak, though the voice is that of an echo in twilight, "Touch them not, for they rise not from earth, but from stories untold." Such is the nature of these elusive spheres, born of a void where music once played, now but a somber hymn of what could have been.
Beyond this realm, somewhere in the folds of reality, lies a path— a whispering dark that cradles twilight, and beyond it pale luminance, where shadows uncoil into dawnless echoes.
Dare you slip into the veil, to find what lies beneath the dust? The phantom glow straddles the horizon of your dreams, waiting patiently.