A book lay open in the dust of abandoned highways, its pages rustling in unguarded breaths. Each line, an echo; each story, an unanimations flicker beneath a starless canvas. There was a clock that ticked oddly, in reverse, as if counting the memories yet to be lived.
The chapters—a myriad of worlds stitched together like moth-eaten fabric—told of journeys never taken. Worlds where the sun never set, and shadows danced to unheard melody. Narratives entwined, like vines scrabbling towards forgotten light.
At the center, a solitary traveler kneels, tracing paths with fingers stained by lunar glow, carved through celestial parchment long unseen.