In the quiet realm where stars whisper history unto the soil, the oak trees stand watchful.
Legends say they were planted by the ancients, seeds scattered by hands unseen across the mythical constellations.
The grandfather clock chimed thirteen times, an hour lost in the passage of dreams.
A raven perched upon the edge of a golden sea, waiting for something yet to happen.
Maps drawn in the dust of forgotten rooms, leading nowhere yet familiar.
Candles flickered in the sunlit void, shadow dances of worlds unseen.
Sophocles and the last verse of a melody, sung by a waterfall.
Listening to the hum of stories inside an acorn's prayer.
The stars, like the minds of wandering poets, have their own orbits, unpredictable yet constant. Such is the path of memories—some tethered to time, others free in their celestial serenade.