In the realm where hours bleed into shadows, a voice sings. It is neither light nor heavy, but dances like mist upon a silent lake.

'Who am I?' the whisper asks, floating on the cusp of reality—a question without beginning or end, resting in the cradle of infinite dreams. Perhaps you know that song, the one forgotten by every waking world but remembered by all asleep.

A lone traveler through corridors of memory hums it still. Would you join? Take a step; the ground beneath shifts like a bed of stars.

Listen as they recount tales of moons that have no names, of winds that speak in dialects of past and future entwined. These are the whispers that weave the fabric of time itself.

It is an evening of boundless horizons; the stars themselves appear at the door like old friends returning home. You hear a laugh, resounding through the night like the chime of distant bells.