You see, under the bed, the dust bunnies speak a language of their own, whispers in the dark corners that pirouette shadows across the wall. They tell stories of places children dream and never wake from, till the tick-tock of clocks wrest him from sleep and pull back the veil. Someday, I might join them, you see.
A rabbit made of moonlight asks where the path winds when no one's watching. I tell it of the yellow brick road paved with the sun's laughter, and the rabbit just nods, its glassy eyes reflecting the kaleidoscope of stars. Sometimes, it feels like we dance through realms unseen, chasing whispers of a wind that never stops crying shadows.
The garden where the clock stopped is overgrown now, thorns clawing at the sky, desperate to hold onto time. But the flowers bloom purple and pink, like old secrets spilled over open pages, inked with a longing only daughters of twilight know. I swear one spoke to me today, singing promises of journeys afar, beyond the reach of even the bravest daydreamers.