Once, in the muted town of Silverspring, there came whispers. Silver whispers. They slipped between cracks of cobblestone streets and darted through shop windows, stitching together tales of wonder that only the night understood.
Elara, under a cascade of moonlight, found herself gliding over the shallow river's surface, her reflection merging with the silvery mist that hovered just above the water. In this state, she saw a vision — kaleidoscopic and ephemeral. A world beyond the tangible, where words became fleeting droplets, shimmering down in delicate showers.
Weaving through Elara's mind were echoes of a forgotten lullaby, sung by voices not of this earth. They shimmered like stars on a foggy night, guiding her steps through the glen, where reality slackened its grip, allowing dreams to unfurl like the petals of a nocturnal flower.
And as Elara stepped forth, the night grew older, the tales increasing in tempo until they were a torrent of silver threads woven into the fabric of time itself. Each thread a story, each story a universe, wrapped in the brevity that time so cruelly bestows upon all things.