In the diaphanous echoes of a bygone tomorrow, the vestiges of warmth mingle with the phantasmagoria of crystalline memories. Stands of time, like ancient trees, weave their roots through the soil of unremembered yesterdays, whispering secrets into the purpling twilight.
An intricate dance of golden dust motes pirouettes under the luminescent glare of forgotten stars, as ethereal motes coalesce into ephemeral shapes—shadows of what once was, or perhaps what shall ever be. The air is thick with the scent of nostalgia, an aroma alien yet familiar, evoking forgotten futures with each languid breath.
Seated upon a throne of iridescent pebbles and silken strands, the Custodian holds court over these fleeting omens, their gaze an ocean of understanding, reflecting both the past and the infinite potentialities of what is yet to come. Time is neither linear nor cyclical in their presence; it is an expansive tapestry woven by unseen hands.