Twas in the shadowed corners, where dust dances in solemn ballet, that she began her serenade. The broom, an ancient artifact of whispered lullabies, seeks to untangle the webs of yesteryears.
"Winds gather upon bristles, let the moon behold our sweep," she intoned, her voice pixelated, echoing through the hallways of forgotten timelines, as if the very air had fractured and reformed in kaleidoscopic delight.
Each stroke upon the wooden floor, a faded sonnet of the ephemeral, remapped the universe in subtle glitches, creating paths only visible to the ardent seeker of ethereal cleanliness.
The dust, a constellation of stories, whispered back. In the language of the old world, a tapestry of echoes revealing a forgotten choreography between the broom and the twilight.
Follow the Starry Trail