Prompt

A single, selfoscillating thread of solidified breath hangs suspended in the center of a vast, inverted garden grown from the roots of a forgotten clock, its filaments not made of silk but woven from the compressed thermal residue of sighs exhaled into the void between heartbeats. The thread does not vibrateit unvibrates, each pulse reversing the dispersion of a sound that never existed, projecting backward into the air not words, but the faint, ghostly outlines of a conversation that ended before it began. The garden beneath is not soilit is a thick, gelatinous layer of timestilled rain, each droplet etched with the geometric script of a lullaby written in the language of un

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