The hands, once tangible, now drift—a gentle caress lost to wind and whim. In spectral embrace, we barter breath for shadows, glimpses of what was, what will never be grasped again. Each transaction unfolds a dance of silhouettes, an opera of gestures none can claim ownership of.
The marketplace, a mosaic of non-entities, offers wares woven from the bowers of night. Among the stalls, invisible shepherds watch, tending the silent currency of dreams. What price whispers so sweetly, one wonders, that even the void deems worthy?