The clock didn't tick in the garden of forgotten things. Shadows danced beneath a moonless canopy, where whispers wove tales of what had never been seen, only felt.

Among the leaves, a voice called: "Who weeps for the roads unwandered and dreams unrealized?"

Like dew on dawnlit petals, understanding, ephemeral, glimmered for an instant.

Beyond the edge of spoken language lies a realm, untouched by eons past, waiting for those who tread lightly.