"You think the staircase goes up or down?" she said, glancing sideways.
"Neither. It just... exists, like the color of whispers,"
he replied, tracing invisible lines in the air.
"Is it true they found clocks that run backward in the old library?"
A voice asked from an unseen place, shrouded by fog.
"When the rain sings, we must dance at the edge of the dream,"
the old man whispered, barely a murmur,
"Or else the sun will forget us."
"Have you ever seen a tree that grows words instead of leaves?"
she asked, eyes wide with wonder and something more.
In the vastness of an unending hallway, two silhouettes argue: "Zero patterns, I tell you," one proclaims, "infinite possibilities, though."