In the depths of the purple-violet sky, where stars are stories untold, she stood vigilant.
The boundary between whispers and echoes lay thinly veiled in the dew of the waking dawn.
Her name was Elysia, a guardian of fragments—pieces of places not quite here.
"Tonight," she murmured, "the tides of time seem restless."
The clock ticked backward on her wrist, each tick a memory unmade.
Quantum entanglements of words intertwined, knitting realities in shadowy knitters' hands.
Whisper