They wandered through alleys of mist, where the sky kissed pavement and stars fell like rain. Here, among shadows and echoes, the whispers of an unvoiced tale murmured.
The book was forgotten, its pages lost and scattered like leaves in a gale. Yet, within the heart of this absence, a symphony echoed—the origin of all stories, hidden in infinite loops of written dreams.
Perhaps it was the silence that spoke, claimed the wind, or maybe the sigh of old timbers creaking under the weight of sandcastles dreamt by kindhearted giants.In the village that never sleeps, the candles flickered in a language no soul could understand. Beneath the pale glow, words danced, shimmering in a tapestry of forgotten light.