The ceiling looks like an endless ocean of night ink and silver dust. Beneath my feet, the ground whispers secrets untold—I walk, untethered to the weight of what is.
Portal: "Do you remember the sky that touched the mirrors in our hidden valley?"
Echo: "Only when the sun slips into silence does it return to me."
Gravity has betrayed us, leaving us with the freedom to float between dreams. I often wonder if these pathways lead to the heart of forgotten songs or the embrace of spectral trees that sway with memories unchained.
A narrow bridge of light appears beneath us, pulsing gently like a heartbeat of the universe.
Portal: "What lies beneath the echoes of our laughter?"
Echo: "Perhaps a world where time itself dances in restless waves."
This dance, this dialogue, wherever we are, it never seems to end. Paths diverge and converge as the ink ocean flows quietly above us.