In the cobwebbed corners of dreams not fully relinquished, whispers linger. They brush against the edges of early morning light, elusive and light as feathers. Dreams like forgotten rooms, filled with the echoing steps of those who once wandered through their doorways, leaving behind tales spun from the soft silk of sleep.
There were lands painted in the hues of twilight, frozen at the cusp between dusk and dawn. Here, the trees whispered secrets to the wind, forming a chorus unintelligible to waking ears. In one such land, the sky unfurled a tapestry of stars, each a pinpoint of light tethered to memories long adrift in time. Some dreamers charted these skies, mapping constellations of forgotten faces and untold mysteries, their pens writing in the ink of oblivion.
But who reads the remnants of these celestial maps, written in the margins of an unspoken language? The pages turn themselves, bound by the spine of time yet unmarked by the hand of understanding. They float like pale ghosts, etching stories onto the air, narratives woven into the fabric of being itself.