Once, in a cavern of silent echoes, the whispers of yesterdays unfurled like scrolls made of air and dusk. A narrative written upon the bones of forgotten clocks, it ticked in the absence of time.
The weaver, a shadow clad in threads of midnight, spun looms from stardust and the sighs of oceans. Each weave a mirror, a dream encapsulated in the embrace of its own voidness.