"Did you remember?" whispered the lilies, swaying in rhythm with the gentle hum of the universe. An unknown reply echoed back, distant yet certain.
"I left it by the riverside..." she murmured, her voice twining like faint paper cranes in flight. "But the carousel's tune plays on without us."
Lightning struck, not with a flash, but with a visceral realization; a silent gasp electrifying the dialogue. "Tomorrow never came," he laughed, aware of everything and nothing.
Somewhere in the static, a tune played a melody reserved for lost time: Memory Lane echoes the forgotten lullaby.
It was not spoken, yet the truth rippled beneath their feet. "The moon is only a trick of the light," someone mentioned, an immutable truth, or perhaps just a line from a play.
"Catch the whispers," they said, spinning a tether into the web of blinking stars, a moment caught in its own reflection.
Reverberations last // echo of the voyage that never sails.