In a world painted with the dust of yesteryears, where unicorns whisper to shadows, there lies a place beyond the waking heart.
A golden key spins gently in the wind, waiting to unlock doors to rooms that we have not entered, but have always known. Perhaps, they sigh, perhaps.
Glimpse the laugh of the moonlit dew, soft upon the edge of dreams. Is it real or are we just travelers in the mist?
Through the trees, voices whisper tales of time, tethered to the breath of something ancient yet childlike, resembling us perhaps not in form, but in longing.
And the darkest corners seem to cradle laughter, a sound like glass bells ringing, sweet and far, when the night stretches its arms wide.
Will you follow? Silence awaits, always knowing more than it lets on.