The first whistles of the night, a distant melody, reverberate across the landscape of forgotten dreams and half-formed laughter. The sun dips, not in sorrow, but with a vibrant exuberance, splashing hues of orange and crimson across the sky.
Do you hear them? Those whispers that echo, echo, echo in the hollow chambers of what used to be and what could still be? A chorus of memories, luminous and alive, charging through the air like shooting stars sprinting towards destiny.
Ripple through the silent gardens where the moon leans to listen and where every petal tells a story spun with gossamer threads of light.
Oh, the stories they tell, the ones wrapped in velvet shadows. Glide along the cerulean river, its waters tickling the sky-glow, and feel the surge of vitality and time's golden wink.