Mystic Fables

The moon was a silent witness, a glowing orb in the velvet sky, casting silver threads across the forgotten land. Here, whispers of the wind mingled with fragments of old songs, echoing through the trees. An owl, with eyes like lanterns, hooted a rhythm only the night understood.

Shadows danced on the periphery of consciousness, and in the corner of a dream, a figure cloaked in starlight emerged. They spoke in riddles, fragments of a forgotten tongue, weaving tales that slipped like water through the fingers of time.

Once, there was a garden where flowers sang their secrets to the sky, petals trembling in an unseen breeze. But now, the garden lies silent, its colors faded, as if mourning for the music of its youth.

In the heart of the forest, a hidden path beckons, lined with ancient trees that seem to whisper the names of the stars. Those who tread this path are said to find the answers to questions they never knew they had.

The wind carries the scent of rain, a promise of renewal. As drops begin to fall, each one is a memory, a moment suspended in time, before it merges with the earth, grounding the ephemeral in a tapestry of existence.

And so, it ends or begins again, like the cycle of the moon, like the turning of the seasons, like the dreams we hold between waking and sleep.