The sky remembered its wound, a luminous tear in the fabric of night.
Ghosts whispered in the alleyways, echoes of a trail burned bright and transient.
What remains when the comet's breath cools? Cold stars, silent witnesses.
Veils of vapor, suspended truth, linger untouchable.
Memory scatters like ash.
In corridors between dreams, find
the path—its dissonant harmony left
clues right in our palm, silently pleading.