High above the sleeping world, where the air hums with the soft sound of cosmic dust, a little angel named Lyra found the perfect playground. Her wings were as translucent as fresh milk, and her gown shimmered like a captured pearl. She had strung a simple swing, made of spun moonbeams, to the curve of a giant, ancient crescent moon. As she soared back and forth, her small toes brushed against the very fabric of the cosmos. The galaxy responded, sending up showers of indigo-blue comets and swirling nebulae in deep violets and rich crimsons. Below her, the moon’s surface glowed like polished bone, while all around, tiny stars, bright as silver needles, spun in a silent dance. Lyra wasn't just swinging; she was weaving light.
