A person standing by a puddle reflecting a swirling cosmic sky and stormy clouds with a large bird flying above.

The puddle sits in the dirt like any other, a shallow oval of rainwater left behind by last night’s drizzle. But its surface is too still, too glassy, as if the wind refuses to touch it. When you look down, the reflection is wrong. Above you, the real sky is pale, quiet, almost boring. But in the puddle: storm fronts churn in slow spirals, dark blue and bruised purple lightning forks silently, illuminating cloud structures that don’t exist anywhere you know stars glimmer faintly, even though it’s daytime something enormous moves behind the clouds, too large to be a bird, too graceful to be a machine The horizon inside the puddle curves slightly, as if the world it shows is smaller than yours. The clouds drift in directions that don’t match the wind. And every few seconds, the reflection flickers — not like a glitch, but like something adjusting its focus. When you step closer, the puddle deepens. Not physically, but visually. The sky inside seems to sink away from you, stretching into a vast, inverted dome. You feel a faint pull in your chest, like gravity reconsidering its loyalties. If you touch the surface, the reflection doesn’t ripple. Instead, the storm pauses, as if noticing you. Ver mais