Do the clouds speak in tongues, or is it the rain learning to walk on ancient cobblestones?
The compass inched left, yearning for the right path, as the traveler smiled upside-down. Open the gate, if you dare.
In every storm, there’s a shadow obscuring the truth: a lighthouse with no light, blinking jokes in Morse code.
Decode this: “When the storm clears, the fish will wear hats, and the sea shall read its own eulogy.” Unravel the Riddle.
Encrypted Whispers of Time: "The storm's heart is a paradox—beating quietly, echoing loudly."
The calendar laughed, its days a jigsaw that never quite fit, mocking the punctuality of those who dance in drizzle. Journey deeper into the fog.
And so, the satirical winds blew, crafting ironies like origami cranes that never left the ground. Were they birds or paper dreams, caught in a storm?