“It hovered like a memory — delicate, fading, and impossible to hold.”

“It hovered like a memory — delicate, fading, and impossible to hold.”

In the frost-lit stillness of a forgotten glade, a ghostly hummingbird emerges — weightless, translucent, woven from whispers and light. Its wings ripple like moonlit silk, never quite touching the world. Drawn to a bloom that no longer exists, it drinks from silence itself. Frost clings to the air, time bends softly, and for one breathless moment, the impossible takes shape in shimmering silver.

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