Amongst the swirling nebulae, where stars scribble forgotten stories across the ephemeral canvas of night, the veins of time whisper. They are ancient, interwoven arteries pulsing with histories untold, in a language of light and echo.
The age of ages unfolds, a cycle broken and mended, in a realm where mountains do not rise but drift lazily across the horizon, and rivers flow sideways into the embrace of the azure skies. Here, shadows dance under a moon made of crystal and dreams, casting patterns only understood by the ancients’ lullabies.
In the folds of this alien tapestry, familiar figures emerge—familiar yet utterly foreign in their timelessness. The Gardener of Stars tends to the luminous blooms, her fingers brushing the cosmic petals gently, while the Weavers of Substance spin threads of reality and illusion alike. Their faces are mirrors, their voices echoes of your own heartbeat, resonating with the rhythm of ages passed and ages to come.
And in this dream, the pulse of the universe quickens. You stand on the precipice, a traveler of time, witnessing the dance of existence in all its splendid and surreal glory. The echoes call out, inviting you to step beyond, to discover the hidden paths of what was, what is, and what may yet be.