"The threads, they dance between waking thoughts and reality's edge," said the old shoemaker whose laces tied worlds together.
Ever were there strings of memory clad in ancient whispers guiding us into the caverns of yesterday— where shadows carved their sigils in echoing silence.
"Northern lights flicker like a forgotten symphony," it murmured, as a passing breeze caressed the veil, seen only in twilight hours.
Moths gather where unseen forces hum, above streams turned chocolate by bends of time... Yet the scent is familiar — like whispered relics of time spent backwards.
Seek wisely:
Detached yarns in travelers' necklaces, picked up dust along roads shepherded by moons of comparative age. A tapestry woven throughout silence, it's there you must listen for the undertow.