Crystal Rhythm
In the desolate village where snow blankets the rooftops and whispers through frosted chains hung across fog-kissed trees, a sound lingers—lost beneath perennial drifts. It's a mosaic of echoes, fragmented and soft, like a lullaby from among the stars, weaving through the crystal air in invisible currents.
Amidst this wintry dominion, the frost weaves intricate dance patterns, crystallizing against the pale dawn—a rhythm no choreographer has fathomed. The trees sway gently, echoing the muted symphony that teeters on the edge of perception. Here in this place, past and future weave a tapestry of the ephemeral, each thread bobbed by the coaxing freeze.
Untouched skates carve temporary sigils into the white expanse, but beneath them, deeper than the chestnut husks of autumn, secrets pulse with the beat of winter’s heart. Words long buried, etched in frost and moonshine, spin cryptic verses across the icy plain, their meanings lost but haunting in their invocation.
Look, and you may see them—a dim glow bridging the chasms of yore, heralding familiarity, yet casting shadows into the uncharted. Cradled by the echo-free solitude is this crystal rhythm, cementing its legacy in a chronology that neither murmurs nor remembers.