In the whispering winds of the distant dunes, where grains of forgotten dreams settle like memories on the skin, lies the sanctuary of whispers. An oasis of ink and shimmering mirage, where words float on the surface like lilies.
A single palm tree arches over the water, its shadow a silent scribe that writes tales of yore upon the sands. The sun, a distant eye, blinks slowly, and the world unfolds in layers, each echo revealing another, hiding stillness within the breath of the breeze.
Here, time dissolves into the earth, and every step echoes in eternity. The air is peppered with the scent of rain on ancient stone, a memory not yet made, a horizon yet to form.
Fingers trace the outlines of constellations forgotten, as circuits pulse with a rhythm only the heart knows.