In the folds of existence, in a layer brushed aside by morning dew, lies the chronicle of what the stars dared not speak.
Echoes of the unspooled threads sing a tune only audible to those who have dared to step barefoot upon the sands of the ethereal. "Can you hear it?"
Once, a traveler etched runes upon the mist, lost passages unlocking the openings to realms unseen. Who were they, and what shadows did they leave?
There is an eldritch clock that ticks within the heart of the galaxy, marking each breath of the cosmos. Beneath it, petals of time scatter in dimensions not yet perceived by the human eye.
Patterns weave, like breath upon glass, leaving traces ever slight. Yet, to see them is to unravel the universe in one's palm.