Prompt

A single, pulsating fractal tree of solidified static and woven silence grows from the center of a vast, still plain made entirely of powdered time, its branches not reaching upward but spiraling inward like the memory of a breath held too long. The tree does not growit resonates, emitting not sound but a low, harmonic frequency that causes the plain to ripple like a frozen lake of liquid memory, each ripple forming the shape of a question that was never asked. The roots are not buriedthey float, suspended in a thick, viscous layer of compressed silence, their tips glowing faintly with the afterimage of a conversation that happened in reverse. The leaves are not greenthey are translucent, crystalline shards etched with the faint,

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