Once, in a realm where shadows were soft whispers and the ground was an afterthought, a traveler named Thalos discovered the art of floating. Unlike anything tethered to the earth, there is beauty in weightlessness. So they said.

Rafting on clouds was simple, almost mundane. Yet, the traveler met cloudborne echoes of conversations once spoken among stars. "What weight do thoughts carry?" they mused, as fragments drifted by.

There exist bridges of mist connecting islands of vapor, unseen in the daylight's acclaim but known to those who walk among the winds. The journey was never a race, but a slow unfurling of horizons untold.

Upon encountering a ring of luminous fog, Thalos paused. "Wonders are often veiled," came the thought like a distant lullaby, echoing from horizons yet to see dawn.

The clouds whispered secrets of the cosmos, tales of time without shadows or markers, an age of floating. Familiar and alien, the memories wove a tapestry upon Thalos's mind.

As the sun dipped behind unseen peaks, a question rippled through: "Are we the dreamers, or have we become the dream?" And in that moment, the earth fell away.