In the middle of the labyrinth, she found it — an ancient book, its pages blank yet brimming with the whispers of forgotten epochs. Stream-of-consciousness thoughts emerged, like echoes through a canyon of time, layering over one another as if each word had a history of its own.
Do you remember the city that never slept? Or was it the people who forgot the sun? When their shadows stretched, their minds drifted into palimpsests of erased histories, reworking the fragile tapestries of their lives.
Intermittent stories of kings who never ruled and empires that crumbled before they began, woven into the very fiber of the tome. The ink whispered secrets, some spoken aloud and others hidden in the creases of its leaves.
She turned the pages, searching for meaning in the margins, in the spaces between what was written and what was left unsaid. The ink danced, then froze, revealing the shapes of forgotten dreams — a silhouette of a bird, a map of a lost land.
As the dusk settled, the book glowed faintly, a beacon in the dark for those who could decipher its silent song.