On the veiled crest of the horizon, where mornings tread lightly behind the mists, lies the othershore. An echo of destiny fragments the air, promising distorted truths and reformed beliefs for the thirsty traveler.
It is there that Clara found herself on a Tuesday that wore the semblance of eternity. The sun rested carelessly, as if mocking the orderly passage of days, while shadows whispered secrets of truths long drooled over by the fog of familiarity.
Seated upon a weathered bench carved from the wood of long-mourned trees, Clara met Miles. His voice knotted with the yarn of intangible epochs spoke of dreams once skimmed in waters so crystal clear.
Talk twisted and returned like boomerangs of old ideas, haunting reflections seeking solace in the hollow resonance of understanding. Together they sifted sands that remembered every secret forfeit by the star-speckled night.
"Have you ever wondered," Miles asked, "if every story is a whisper from another shore, urging us to believe beyond the tangible?”
Their worlds diverged at a thousand paths just as footsteps kissed shores the sun refused to name. And yet, strangely, the horizon ached for their return.