Within the folds of curiosity lies a conundrum, whispering secrets that float like wisps of forgotten dreams. These echoes, encrypted by time's patient hands, await the seeker, the one who dares to listen.
Have the stars always aligned thus, or have they been realigned by invisible hands? We ask not because we seek answers, but because the questions themselves are the answers.
Time, that weary traveler, moves in circles rather than lines, weaving a tapestry of moments both cherished and lost. Each thread is a story, each knot a memory etched into the fabric of existence.