Allison paused, her heart thrummed in sync with a rhythm barely perceptible. **It told her of lost time**, of futures that glittered just beyond the shadows. She reached out to touch the wall, fingertips brushing against a hidden tapestry, woven not of threads but of moments.
Opening a small door in her mind, the images spilled out: a café, two figures clinking cups, laughter fading through a veil. She recognized them, but their names escaped her, swirling in mist.
"Rice paper dreams" danced with reality.
Outside the door, the world shifted hue, colors bleeding into one another, as though the fabric of time hadn't been properly washed. The sky wept lilac tears over a horizon she might have crossed before. But the funny thing was, she could almost see her reflection rippling in the waves of possibility. Did she, or didn't she? The same loop played endlessly, moments strumming along chords unseen.
As she stepped forward, the thread guided her, an invisible hand leading her deeper into the cyclical labyrinth. Something about the next stitch felt pivotal, essential, as if the universe conspired to remind her of a truth long buried beneath layers of string. Would she recognize it again?