In lengths unmeasured, beneath the moon's faded gaze, she wove her whispers into twilight's fabric.
"The path is not ours," he murmured, "but guided by those unseen sparks."
"Are the fireflies not mere echoes of our forgotten steps?" she questioned, her voice a lonesome bell in the deep.
Then, as if summoned by a push of fate, their thoughts began to drift, suspended like ill-formed dreams in an abyss of stars.
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