In the year when snow fell as whispers and the clocks unwound under the canopy of stars, the gray cat pondered where to hide its dream.
Amidst the skeletal trees, a voice flowering with yesterdays sang: "We are the echoes that no horizon can contain."
Stairs dance up into the void, never completing their pilgrimage; velvet leaves fall not upon ground but upon memories of clouds.
In the cobbled corridors where echoes lay their weary heads, a shadow stepped lightly and paused.
Once, in the ink-stained dawn before the sun knew its name, a garden grew with words that danced in kaleidoscopic abandon.
Shall we let the ocean speak through the flute of night's silence, or shall we instead listen as shadows write poems upon the ice of time?