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A shimmer once walked in soft echoes, before time unfolded its teeth. Laughter held shape like melting glass, not yet fractured by the future’s grin. Ash whispered through marrowless halls, each step a memory dressed in fog. No name, no face, just a hush where something used to be whole. Words arrived without mouths, carved in the driftwood of vanished touch. "Thunder wore silk," said the silence. "Flesh became echo. Light bent inward until it wept." A gaze, untouched by ruin, tasted the weight of unseen storms. Eyes flooded with things unnamed, a flood without water, a scream without sound. The past cursed the future with hollow stars, each one flickering in reverse, each one bleeding the color of regret. Somewhere, gold unraveled across the edge, not sky, not fire just the stillness between endings that never learned to end. And then, as the hush swallowed the last breath of flame, the earth inhaled the final question: “The sunset is beautiful, isn’t it?”