"The lamp whispers secrets," she said, voice barely a flicker in the air that smelled of ancient woods and forgotten paths. "Do you listen?"
"Sometimes, the shadows tell stories of birds that never learned to fly," he replied, gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was a memory, not a sight.
"In the heart of a clock, there's a river," she remarked, brushing her fingers through the light that danced like wind on water.
A voice echoed from nowhere, "And in that river, time is a fish, swimming backward, seeking the warmth of a forgotten dawn."
"Have you ever chased the moon until it becomes morning?" he asked, the question hanging like a dream half-remembered.
"Only twice," she confessed, "and each time I found my reflection staring back, not as I am, but as I might have been."
"Where does the ether lead?" he wondered aloud, as the crimson light wrapped around them like a veil.
"To places unseen and voices unheard," she said, "where the dreams are woven into the very fabric of the stars."