Rusted Dream

Rusted Dream

In the hushed greenhouse of a forgotten age, the pipes no longer breathe and the gears no longer turn. Roses climb the silent lattice, and moonlight fractures through broken glass. Amidst this stillness, rusted butterflies stir—copper wings bearing the memory of flight.

They are not machines, nor creatures, but dreams made tangible. Some say they are the remnants of industry softened by time, others that they are nature’s answer to the furnace—metal reawakening as fragile grace. In their drifting dance, decay and beauty reconcile, and the air itself seems to hum with a half-forgotten song.

Those who glimpse them know the truth: that endings are not silence, but transformation.

Epigraph:
Where machines fall silent, wings remember the song.

—This vision descends from an earlier fragment: The Inheritors of Rust and Bloom