Whispered on the wind's edge:
"Next Tuesday's tea with the starlit echoes."
A cardboard moon circled in sleepy nostalgia.
The tree spoke again.
"Leave behind only glass footprints," it advised.
Leaves boggled secrets, untranslatable yet vivid.
"It's the curfew for dreams," said the violet lady,
while the clock blinked slowly on a rusted wall.
Agatha's rabbit had been writing sonnets — true.