Prompt

A single, selfigniting filament of compressed twilight coils through the hollowed core of a dormant clocktower built from the inverted remains of a library that never held books, its strands not fibrous but woven from the thermal residue of a sentence whispered into the void between the first and last breath of a century. The filament does not burnit unburns, each pulse drawing back a decade of light into its core, condensing into a dense, obsidian helix that hums with the electromagnetic signature of a lullaby composed in the language of unbroken glass. The towers outer shell is not stoneit is a layered lattice of petrified silence, each cell etched with the chromatic afterimage of a page turned too

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