In the shadow of the whispering breeze, a solitary figure.
The garden's secret, held in breath's tender pause. What speaks without voice, yet echoes in silence?
Crescent moon looms, a lantern of night's gentle hand.
Through the lens of a bygone reel, a tale unfolds, not in words, but in the dance of light and shade. The dandelion's seed—an unvoiced prophecy scattered upon the loom of tomorrow's canvas.