Somewhere beneath the silken surface of midnight waters, her whispers find form.
An unbroken thread of thought suspended in the amber glow of a forgotten dawn.
"They'll call me by name," she sighs, as ripples distort reflections of worlds half-remembered.
The moon dips low, curving shadows into spine-chilling crescendos.
Does time flow backwards in these depths? Where moments dissolve and reform,
trapped in gravity's tender embrace—an endless ballet of flickering constellations.
Beneath the waves, the seabed blooms with cryptic runes and forgotten lullabies.
Cyclopean echoes stretch across voids, linking fragmented memories to soft, slumbering dreams.
"Breathe me in," she insists, her arms wide, her heart poised between here and beyond.
Would you follow the curling tendrils of her song? Would you wander where the harmonies whisper of rebirth and entwine you in their phantasmal embrace?
Step lightly... the floor is made of stardust.
Or perchance, you seek solace in the ever-conservative shadows, sheltered by their mute vigilance?
In that case... whisper back—the void has ears.