The shadow walked on shadows, never stepping into the light. The dancer in the twilight, the whistler in the void.
One day, the shadow met a fork in the peregrination of paths:
Once, a squirrel conversed with the shadow. "Why do you walk in the absence of light?" it inquired, twitching its whiskers with existential curiosity. The shadow replied, but its words were the wind beneath cathedral arches—heard, yet never understood.
Another figure appeared, wearing glasses that reflected not the sun, but the galaxies spun in dreams of starlit oblivion. This figure recorded the tales of the shadow, in ink that danced with shadows of its own.
And as the day ebbed into eternity, the shadow walker pondered. Paths coiled like serpent tongues, secrets coalesced in the interstice of whispers and tides.
Then came a moment, pure and visceral, where the shadow lifted its hand, and stars fell like autumn leaves in search of ground to rest their ancient tales.