"It's not what you think," she said, her voice barely a tremor among the echoing hallways of the dreaming city. "Ghosts never leave."
A faint melody, like the distant chimes of an ethereal clock, played beneath the smoke and mirrors. Its source unknown.
"Do you hear them speaking?" a man's voice inquired, heavy with sleep but bright with curiosity. "I can see their mouths moving."
The old tree, gnarled and mysterious, whispered secrets known only to the soil and the stars above, a trilingual discourse between worlds.
"Meet me where the clocks melt," she suggested, half-visible in the canvas of dreams. Beyond her, the horizon shimmered, rippling with colour and possibilities.
Branching Paths Fragmented Echoes