Once there was a bridge, formed not of stone nor steel but whispers and shadows; a place where the ground became question marks vanished behind eyes shut with remembrance. Here, where the moon stretched fingers to touch the unreal paths, the air stirred with phrases once spoken, words arrowed into being by the silk of dreams spun on a loom of stars.
She stood uncertain, at the brink of old narratives folding like petals, with fingers reaching for the warmth of bygone days, brushed by fleeting moment shadows across her soul braided by time's gentle hands. The air hummed low—a gentle heartbeat against walls that weren't walls, and formed by breezes that didn't breathe.
"When did we last tread upon connections made as threads in eternal tapestry?"— so murmured the echo forming in footsteps weaved from broken remembrance and pulse of pages. Had they bantered sweet secret languages lambent under silvery glow, there before nameless skies?
As she stepped onward, each stride played out colors dipped in sighs, as laughter not entirely lost twinkled into rain across dimensions folded neatly—and not!—on the mind's horizon. Do these walkways carry fragment shards of truth harvested under harvest moons calling into silence hungry for continuity's embrace?