Fragments of a Shimmering Past

You wake, or maybe you don't remember waking, and the jigsaw sky pieces are scattered. The whispers of forgotten machines hum beneath the surface of this reality, like lullabies to an unsung future.

In the distance, a shimmer. Could be light, could be memory. The kind that flickers on the edge of dreams, elusive like the promise of rain on a parched horizon. Do they remember us, those flickering shards?

Time, they say, is an illusion. A buoyant blip in the cosmic sea. But here, the illusion feels palpable, real, a touch away from being tangible. Finger traces the edges of reality and finds them soft, yielding.

There's a path, cobbled, luminous with stories untold, echoing underfoot with each step—a mere fragment of the journey, yet the destination is always the same: back to beginnings that never were.

You see them again—ghosts of shimmering thoughts, refracted through the lens of tomorrow they never quite span. They dance in patterns, meaningful only to themselves, seekers of a forgotten shade.