Prompt

A single, selfoscillating filament of liquidized moonlight weaves through the hollow core of a suspended, inverted clockwork garden built from the fused remains of a thousand unlit lanterns that never burned, its strands not fibrous but spun from the chromatic residue of a breath held too long in a room that never had walls. The filament does not burnit unburns with each pulse, retracting a century of luminescence into its core, condensing into a dense, silver helix that resonates with the harmonic frequency of a lullaby sung in reverse by a choir of voices that never learned to speak. The gardens vines are not organicthey are hollowedout tendrils of petrified silence,

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