In the unseen corners of a library not in any book, there exists a whisper—an echo carried on silken threads of forgotten dreams. Its source, an ancient tome resting on the cusp of reality and illusion, speaks of worlds shared by none but dreamed by those who dare to remember.
The whisper tells of an arboreal landscape where trees breathe symphonies and roots weave tales older than the stars. Here, the sky isn't blue but a deep cerulean cascade, constantly shifting like a living tapestry. Through this realm walks a figure, cloaked in the nebulae of unvoiced histories, leaving a trail of glyphs that glow softly in the twilight.
In their hand, the figure cradles a sphere of luminescence, pulsing with the rhythm of a heartbeat not of this world. It is said to be the Echo, a remnant of the First Singers who harmonized the cosmos into existence.