"I never knew the stars could speak," she mused, the sound escaping her lips like a soft caress of velvet night.
*"What dreams may come..."* he whispered, as though the moon commanded his words, tethering them to eternity.
Sometimes, I wonder if we are but echoes of ourselves, wandering through the labyrinthine corridors of our own making.
*"Meet me where the shadows cast by the lanterns dance,"* her voice synced in tempo with the night breeze.
Every thought a reflection, every reflection a secret longing unnoticed.
A universe tangled in silken threads of whispered unfelt desires.
"She left no trace, save for a memory woven in the fabric of dream," he sighed, tracing his fingers through the air.
Enter the Garden of Secrets