The kettle whistles softly, harmonizing with the distant echoes of forgotten stories.
Grandfather sat there, hands tracing patterns on an invisible tapestry suspended mid-air as he spoke.
Dust from the forgotten comet's tail settled gently over his words.
"There are worlds spoken of in hushed tones, where shadows turn to dancers at dusk and reality takes refuge beneath a fabric woven of celestial residue." His eyes gleamed, cosmic reflections there.
Behind him, shadow puppets played, joining the tea steam, rising, swirling, whispering too.