In the dim corridors where shadows tangle with equations, the whispers of the lost formula sing.
Once upon a time, in Fibonacci's cradle, a serpent coiled atop an infinite scroll. Its tail traced the secrets of geometries untold, lullabies woven into the fabric of numbers.
The ancients listened with patience, their breaths synchronized with the silent symphonies in the air, harmonizing with the delicate hum of irrational dreams.
Underneath forgotten stars, they drew circles in the sand, a language crafted by unseen tides, its meaning at the heart of eternal dusk.
Yet when dawn broke, the sands slipped away, and with it, the formula vanished—lost, not due to absence, but presence itself.