The gilded image flickers on the wall, a dancing golden silhouette of whom or what none can tell. Isabella watches it, her memory tangled, ink dropped haphazardly across the pages of her past—rain tomorrow, whispers about the moon's tide.

Coffee only tastes best on mornings painted with fog. Was it yesterday that she spoke to the shadows lurking beneath her shop's floorboards, or was it last Tuesday?

Ryss speaks again about chimera cells...

The image hums softly, a frequency tuned to the heartbeat of unsung serpents coiling around invisible tree trunks stretching into infinity. The gust of wind carries a forgotten name, its syllables woven into the fabric of spirals.

Did Urania really orchestrate the eclipse? The ivory chariots of sunset don’t stop for anything.

Isabella ventures deeper, where voices become scenery, and every blink reveals landscapes woven from paradoxes. She sketches the path she walks—yet each line loops back, a Möbius kiss rendered in soft graphite touches.