"Are the shadows hungry here too?" she wondered aloud, clutching a feather that glimmered like the moon.

He answered in riddles, "The horizon eats whispers before the sun can swallow them whole."

Somewhere, an old clock struck thirteen, but the hands were made of leaves.

Follow the winding path to the dream snake's lair.

She asked if the flowers were singing again, their voices a soft echo of yesterday's rain.

"Here, the sky is a canvas," he replied, "painted with memories of worlds unseen."

Listen to the murmurs of the ephemerals.

And in the distance, the horizon itself seemed to smile.