Once, in the dust-laden corners of an infinite library,
sat a tome bound in whispers and twilight.
Each page, a sigh of worlds forgotten,
drifting through echoes of being,
unspooled by the delicate hands of a nameless god.
Time, the reluctant scribe, teetered on the edge of
chaotic dreams—each moment a falling star,
each day a muted howl in the corridors of existence.
And so the tales began:
of hollow kingdoms wrapped in spectral fogs,
and shadows that danced on the edges of twilight.
Through the unraveling, voices rise,
echoes of an unknown melody
that breathed life into the silent stone
and wept for the fading stars
scattered like dreams
across the thrumming expanse of a universe
too vast to remember.
A phantom shore, where the oceans kiss
the vestiges of broken tales,
and the wind carries the weight of
a thousand unspoken truths
laid bare beneath the luminescence of
a moon that knows
no dawn.