Between the ages of stars foregone and yet to blossom, where the astral winds breathe sighs of ancient memories, our paths intertwine, an echo reverberating through the chasms of time.
Do you recall the silken dawns when hues of gold danced upon the horizon? I saw you there, a silhouette drawn against the canvas of awakening skies, yet the place felt strangely familiar.
The clock cannot be undone. Its hands carve out silent symphonies in the corridors of our existence. Each tick a note, each pause a rest, crafting an opus we scarcely comprehend.
Should you ask the willow by the stream, it would whisper tales of rivulets kissing the stones with tender caresses, stories of persistence, of unrelenting hope as they weave through the vale.
A dance beneath fractured moons, shadows long and ephemeral; the twilight plays its haunting refrain. Can we forget that we have danced this dance before, a choreography lost to the whispers of time?