In the shadowy corridors of the mind, where whispers coalesce and untangle in eternal dance, a seed was planted—not of earth and dharma, but of forgotten dreams and half-woken intentions.
The sun rose, or perhaps it did not; time itself trembled at the boundaries of its meaning. Through this cerebral soil, roots like fingers reached, encountering only the echo of consciousness where stories overlay dissonant harmonies.
Thus began the journey of unseen growth: that perennial unknown. She— a faceless being— sang to the quiet hearts of the past, her voice a melody woven from threads of the morning star and twilight calm. Each note lingered in the air, a silent revelry of presence.