"You know, when the shadows turn violet, the fish start singing operas in French." A curious child remarked as the world fell silent around them.
"The last golden tree told a secret to the night's breeze," she whispered, her voice barely a ripple in the vast sea of constellations.
"Are museums really alive at midnights, or do we just dream with open eyes?" the scholar mused, perched atop an ancient whispering boulder.
Explore further into the twilight of forgotten pages.
Return to the hidden tales that softly call your name.