The Sleeper's Chronicles

In the cavernous depths of the sleeper's mind, echoes of dreams forgotten drift like wisps of smoke. Here lies the world unsaid, the whispers of the night clinging to shadows.

Once, a voice emerged from the murky abyss, calling out in a melody that transcended the spoken word:

She reached out with ephemeral fingers, tracing paths through the starlit void. The stars, her companions, blinked in silent agreement as they spun tales of yore.

But as dawn approached, their stories faded into the light, leaving behind fragments of night—a bridge yet crossed, a song unfinished. And the voice, once vibrant, now a soft sigh of wind.

A riddler once pondered, "What lies beneath the folds of slumber?"—to which no answer came, save the rustling of dreams in the autumn leaves.