The moon spills secrets on the ground, ethereal night blooms beneath our feet, as if each shadow holds a story vibrating gently in the undercurrent of our thoughts.
What is lost in the folds of memory? Delicate fingertips graze an echo— a phantom limb reaching for what has slipped away into the labyrinth of dreams.
Once, a bird sang in a languid dream, her tune braided with moonlight, weaving silence into sound, an ephemeral melody haunting the corridors of time.