In the corner of a child's dream, a path winds through shadows and glows with stardust.
Whispers cling to the leaves, secrets kept until the moon bleeds silver.
A garden where nightingales sing in riddles, waiting for eyes wide and ears tuned.
Beyond lies a door with no handle, only the touch of barefoot innocence can part its veil.
Around the bend where time forgets to tick, there lies a puddle reflecting the depths of whimsy.
Children laugh, but listen closely, and you may hear the sighs of spirits in echo.
A swing sways silently, a monument to dreams that can't wake when the sun rises.
Follow the flickers where shadows dance, into the cradle of forgotten tales.