In the eclipse of time, where the sun's embrace over the horizon wanes, a phantom stirs in silence. Adept at navigating realms unseen, the wisp glides across the fractal folds of space. "Follow me into the darkness," it murmurs, its voice a thread of cosmic melody, as old as the stars themselves.
Our forgotten traveler wanders these estranged echoes—where whispers are promises, and shadows are light trapped in a singed veil. The phantoms know not the living realms and yet, they sing to mark the passage of worlds—the delicate clockwork of eternity turning with a celestial grace.
From the cavernous embrace of an invisible dance, many visions rise—a tapestry unfurling in technicolor whispers, transcending light, speaking in tongues of the wind and dust collected on forgotten moons.
You stand at the threshold, a line etched firm in an endless dark, between now and what has been lost. The whispers invite you further into the vernal shadow, now refreshened by spectral fugues. Here, where worlds are borne to end anew in unfinished voyages, one might hear the echoes of phantoms precariously coy.
Somewhere in this in-between, reality ceases to form in inviting stardust—the cosmic wind's whistle now singed upon tender ears, an eternal hymn entwined with your name.