Prompt

A single, selfilluminating filament of solidified wind weaves through the center of a vast, still labyrinth built entirely of compressed, unspoken breaths from a civilization that communicated through the temperature of unlit hearths. The filament does not unravelit spirals, condensing into a slow, rotating helix shaped like the negative space between two palms that never warmed a fire, each twist glowing with the faint, thermal afterimage of a story that was almost told. The labyrinth is not stoneit is a layered expanse of petrified air currents, each corridor etched with the emotional residue of a secret that never left the lips, its walls shimmering with the ghostly outline of a hand reaching for a door that never

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