Lyora and the Song of the Old World

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In the twilight of a world once full of cities, where trees now grow through cracks in the concrete and puddles reflect in old cans, Lyora sat a creature that only appears in old stories. Her sapphire-blue eyes, large and deep like a still lake, gazed out over the overgrown land that the jungle was slowly reclaiming. Her skin shimmered greenish, like leaves after rain, but patches of soft, blue fur flashed between the scales—as if the wind itself had given her something from the clouds. Her large, pointed ears twitched slightly whenever a sound flitted through the thicket: the splash of a puddle, the buzz of an insect, the whisper of the wind. Lyora sat cross-legged on a mossy stone, her long fingers resting calmly on her knees, her earthy-green claws almost one with the ground beneath her. Simple, layered shawls lay around her shoulders—aged, worn, like witnesses to a long journey. And yet she radiated something that wasn't old, but eternal: patience. Wisdom. Warmth. Beside her crouched Mipi, her small frog-like companion. His skin was similar to hers, and sometimes he mimicked her movements—as if he wanted to learn how to be still, how to listen without saying a word. "You know, Mipi," Lyora said in her soft, raspy voice, "some places remember. Not names or machines... but songs." Mipi looked at her, his head slightly tilted. Lyora raised a finger, as if to point to the air. And sure enough—where a yellow flower had grown through the crack in the asphalt, a faint humming began. Like a melody that had slumbered beneath the earth. Perhaps it was the sound of a memory. Or a hope. "This world is not lost," she whispered. "It only dreams." And as Mipi snuggled quietly next to her, the sun slowly disappeared behind a ruin, and the jungle began to sing, Lyora closed her eyes. For she knew: The ancient language of the earth had not been forgotten. It was just heard differently—by those who were quiet enough to listen.