A lone violin under a cosmic canopy, where stars hum entwined harmonies.
In a dim-lit room, nestled on the fringes of a forgotten realm, a play begins. The players wear masks not to hide identities but to reveal deeper truths. Their voices, ethereal and haunting, weave a fabric of reality and dreams. A loose thread pulls, unraveling time as the audience gasps – the end is but a cycle's echo, a haunting refrain.
The curtains, woven from moonlight and shadows, ripple as if the wind carries silent whispers of a thousand dreams.
A distant echo of applause fades away, reverberating through time's endless corridors.