"Perhaps the morning stars will come to know their names again,"

The clock ticked backwards in the forgotten room, its chime a distant echo of laughter once shared. There, a voice like rustling leaves, fragments of whispered dreams lingered like shadows.

"What was lost in the silence of the ocean's embrace, or perhaps, in the flight of the night owl?"

Their words, timeless, fell like autumn leaves upon a windless night. Beneath the weight of silence, only echoes remained to answer.

"In a world where daylight could not reach, we became images, reflections in moonlit streams."

Somewhere, a clock continued its futile dance, unwinding time as if to unravel the very fabric of memory.