The clock chimed beyond midnight, its voice a melody of forgotten pasts. A door appeared, though not quite there, swelling in the dim light—a portal perhaps. She leaned in, and the whispers grew clearer, or maybe it was the wind that howled stories of ancient skies. Murmurs spoke of conflated realities.
Turtles in the sky, swimming through clouds made of butter. Was it Tuesday? Time was an illusion, and reality wove itself in and out of the labyrinth of dreams. A lone violin played a tune only the moon could understand, resonating with the silent scream of a thousand unspoken words. Silence echoed in colors not seen before.
Numbers danced on the walls, and she could read their secrets. One whispered, "42," and another laughed, "Not quite right." The book in her hands had no words—just the impression of thoughts long forgotten, yet so familiar. Could she remember? Would she dare?