Prompt

A single, selfreflecting dandelion seed floats suspended in the center of a vast, still library built entirely from folded sheets of forgotten paper, each page not inked but etched with the faint, thermal afterimage of a breath exhaled in a language composed of rustling leaves. The seed does not driftit pulses, its delicate filaments unfurling not into wind, but into a slowmotion cascade of microconstellations that spell out the name of a city that was never named, each star forming from the residue of a sigh whispered into a silence that never ended. The library walls are not woodthey are layered membranes of solidified air, each shelf carved from the compressed echo of a lullaby sung in

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