Whispering in the silence of an unwritten book, a voice. 'Do you seek closure?' it asks, with a tone both mocking and sincere.
A clock without hands, ticking backwards. 'Time heals,' it hums, ironically, as we wait for healing that never comes.
Once, there was a hero. His name? Undecided. His quest? Also uncertain. Yet, seated upon a throne of half-finished stories, he reigns supreme.