In the heart of the silken fog, where the sky drapes itself with stars, there lay a village woven from shadows. The dreams, they whispered here, clinging to the edges of reality like dew upon dawn's first grasp. Elders of the moss-clad stones sang silent tunes to noh moons and unraveled the tapestry of yesteryear.
Among the village dwellers, silent questions was posed: "Does the sky tremble beneath our sleeping thoughts?" In dreams tethered to restless seas, these queries visited storms.
Time, a shadowless specter, scrawled upon the ether. Paths diverged into iris-eyed woodlands,
tattooed not by mapmakers but by feet unseen, yet heard.
Once every season of rain—home to tiny brass clocks—the ancient wind blows murmurs through iron reeds.
"Listen," it beckons, "nature cradles our lore, whispers fate."
They said of woven fools, of destinies drawn with thread from thundered skies. Giants made of scars and echoes long overdue roamed in search of unwritten tales, where each stumbled step unfurled rivers of stars flowing back to unwalked paths.