"Do you remember," she murmured, "when stars dared to cascade down our thoughts, mingling with our dreams like whispers that needed no gravity?"Her voice flickered in the twilight, a celestial compass unbound by earth's insistence on weight and measure.
"In the marrow of the mountains, a heart can beat without fear or worry," replied the man with eyes like eclipsed suns. "Here, thoughts can be, paradoxically, both alive and at peace, for they know the dance of silence."His presence seemed drawn from epochs where time spiraled in loops rather than lines.
"And yet," she whispered as her fingers traced invisible archways through time and mist, "future echoes skitter like shadows across understanding. Can we cradle light in our palms once more?"Their conversation floated as soundless canvases, waiting to be brushed with the hues of possibility.
"Perhaps when mountains speak, the valleys will listen," he offered with a half-smile, "and the horizon itself might turn over a new leaf."With such a perspective, gravity became merely one more splendid fiction, a song sung in a moment of longing harmony.