He moved into absolute immobility, a lonely figure in a world that held his breath. His name was Jean-Paul, and his eyes, the color of the forgotten rain, looked on the horizon a sparkle of the other life. He was a man of a few rare and few words and insufficient; A trait that had earned him curiosity among the villagers of Little Mort, a place where the whispers became stronger than the cries and where the eager silence was ... The parents of Jean-Paul, Henri and Madeleine, the Look at the porch of their house, their faces engraved with the lines worried. His brothers and sisters also studied her at a distance, their curiosity mixing with a suspicion of fear. They knew that their brother was different, that his thoughts danced on a melody that they could not hear. The hands of Jean-Paul, callers after years of plowing of the ruthless earth, held a simple wooden flute. It was an instrument that had been transmitted through the generations, a relic of an era when music had not yet been stolen by the silence which wrapped their lives. His fingers danced on the holes, but no sound emerged. The flute was a silent manifestation, a declaration of rebellion against the tacit rule which had taken them down. In the Little Mort, the very act of moving was a form of protest, a declaration of existence in the face of a world which sought to erase all the signs of life. His brothers and sisters, linked by the invisible chains of conformity, did not dare to approach him, their eyes by speaking the volumes that their mouths could not. The village itself was a painting of moments of the frozen touches, a painting which had somehow disclosed a canvas in the fabric of reality. The buildings leaned inward as if he shared a secret that none of them wanted to be the first to break or appear in sight.  The paved streets were empty, with the exception of the occasional wandering sheet which dared to challenge immobility with a beat of its edges. The air was thick with the smell of tacit dreams and the weight of unsatisfied destinies. It was a place where time had decided to take a nap and had never managed to wake up again.  One evening, when the light played towers with the shadows, Jean-Paul looked up with his silent flute and met the eyes of a young girl, the color of his eyes as lively as the first flowering of a flower of the flower of desert. It was new in the village, a breath of fresh air in a world that had forgotten what it meant to breathe deeply. Her name was Émilie, and she was the first person to move to the Little Mort without fear. She jumped and turned, her laughter in contrast striking with the villages in the villagers. Jean-Paul felt a moving in him, a feeling similar to a butterfly taking his first flight. It was a feeling that he had forgotten for a long time, the one who raced in the heart and his fingers who itch to play a song that could break the oppressive silence.  The villagers watched it with a mixture of fear and apprehension. They knew that change, like a forest fire, could spread quickly through their quiet life. However, there was something in Émilie who was impossible to ignore. Its very essence seemed to question the immobility which had become their prison. Jean-Paul felt the booming need to protect her, to protect her from the looks of judgment and whispers that became stronger each time she passed. As the days have developed, the same goes for the shadows of doubt which have slipped into the hearts of those who had accepted the status quo. And while the sun plunged under the horizon, painting the sky into the tones of a forgotten melody, Jean-Paul made a decision that sparked a series of events that could either destroy the village or release it. One morning, when the dew kissed the earth with the promise of a new day, Jean-Paul approached Emilie. The flute, once silent, has now sang a melody that resonated with the very heart of its being. It was a melody that spoke of the freedom and the beauty of the movement, a melody that seemed to love the very essence of the life of the sleep world that surrounds them. The villagers, unable to resist the siren's call, began to stir. His brothers and sisters looked with a mixture of admiration and anger. They had never seen Jean-Paul acting against the will of the village, but he was there, a freezer in a sea of ​​similarity, inviting the girl to dance.  As the music became more daring, the whispers of the villagers too. They talked about the old curse which had brought immobility, the price which must be paid for disobedience. However, Jean-Paul's determination was unshakable. He played, his eyes never leave that of Emilie, the steering wheel to feel the rhythm that bunched in his veins. And as the final note hung in the air, a whipped breeze in the streets, taking with it the smell of the soil soaked in rain and the distant echoes of a world that had not yet succumbed. It was as if the air itself had come to life, humming with the vibrations of his music.  Immobility broke while Émilie took her hand, her sparkling eyes with the light of a thousand rebel spirits. Together, they danced in the center of the village square, their movements as fluid as water, as unpredictable as the path of a shooting star. The villagers, unable to look away, found themselves in the dance, their bodies moving on their own will. The noise of their laughter and the rustling of their clothes were merged from music, creating a symphony of life that had not been heard at little death for generations.  But while the dance reached its crescendo, a sudden cold grabbed the air. The sky, once a canvas of blues, became dark and disturbing. The villagers felt a tremor in the earth under their feet, and the buildings surrounding them began to moan in protest. The whispers grew up towards a cacophony of fear while the reality of their challenge settles. If he had angry the very gods who had silenced their world at the most complete silence? Would they pay the ultimate price of their brief rebellion? Or was it the moment when the village finally woke up from its sleep, when the chains of immobility fall, and life would come back to claim its legitimate place?  Jean-Paul's parents, Henri and Madeleine, looked at the security of their porch, their expressions a tumultuous mixture of pride and terror. They had raised their children in this stagnant world, had taught them to fear the very concept of change. However, here is Jean-Paul, leading a revolution with nothing other than a flute and a girl with a heart full of dreams. As the music became wilder, the tremors too, until the ground even under their feet begins to crack and rise. The cobblestones moved and rolled, creating a landscape that seemed to be alive with its own mind.  In the middle of chaos, Jean-Paul's brothers and sisters fought with their loyalty. Some of them were swept away by the infectious rhythm, their bodies swinging and spinning with a joy that they had never known before. Others have remained rooted on the spot, their faces a mask of horror as they watched their world collapse before their eyes. The cracks were widened and the air formerly filled with time were filled with earth noise, cries of the inhabitants of the village and the sweet and haunting melody which seemed to be both the cause and the healing of their disorder.  The village elder, Mr. Leblanc, came out of the shadows, his face was twisted with rage. He had been the guardian of immobility, the one who applied the old laws with an iron fist. His eyes, formerly filled with ages, now burned with a fury that could set the world on fire. He approached Jean-Paul and Émilie, his cane tapping a rhythm that seemed to counter the music of the flute. "You have all condemned us!" He shouted, his crackling voice like thunder. "The curse will ask you!" But Jean-Paul did not weaken. He played, the melody of the weaving flute through discord as a silver thread, bringing together the fabric of their life with a new model of freedom and hope.  While the earth continued to tremble, a curious thing started to happen. Cracks in the ground, green germs began to pass through, reaching light like the hands of drowning. The villagers looked at astonishment while the trees grew up before their eyes, extending towards the heavens as in thanks for their liberation from the immobility prison. The air was thick with the smell of flowery flowers, and the noise of invisible creatures filled the streets of a symphony of life which had been buried deeply in silence. The curse, it seems, was not at all a curse, but a prison of their own manufacture, a prison that Jean-Paul and Émilie had started to dismantle with their act of daring rebellion.  The tremors have become less violent, the cracks of the earth is slowly tackling together. The music softens, and the villagers, exhausted but alive with new energy, collapsed on the ground.  The immobility had disappeared, replaced by a vibrating and pulsating world which seemed to hum with the promise of infinite possibilities. Jean-Paul looked at Émilie, his cheeks blushed with the effort of their dance, his fiery eyes with the same ardent determination that burned in him. He knew that their trip was just beginning, that the way to go would be responsible for challenges and dangers. But for the moment, they had taken the first step towards a future where each heart could sing its own song, where each soul could dance on its own superb. And as the last note of the flute was in the new Symphony of the Little Mort, Jean-Paul felt a peace being settled on him which was stronger than any silence.  Madeleine, her eyes overflowing with tears, approached her son, her hand stretched. She feared for him, feared that his rebellion caused their destiny. But now, when Ivy's first Vrilles began to kiss the old village stones, she knew he had released them. Henri, too, has advanced, his severe characteristics are moving in a proud smile. The brothers and sisters looked at each other, their rivalries and forgotten resentments in the face of the transformation that had taken place. They had been linked by immobility, but now they were united by the power of the movement and the music that had become their salvation.  Mr. Leblanc, the eldest of the formerly feared village, was seated on the marches of the town hall, his forgotten cane next to him. He looked at the world around him go green and vibrating, while the color infiltrates the life of the villagers. His rage had been replaced by a quiet contemplation, the awareness that his rigid adhesion to the old ways had stifled the very essence of what it meant to live. He looked up at Jean-Paul, and for the first time, he did not see a rebel but a visionary. The flute was lying in the dust, its music now integrated into the tissue of the air.  The villagers of Little Mort have started to reconstruct themselves, their movements are no longer limited by the invisible channels which had retained them captive. They sang while working, their voices mixing with the calls of the birds that had returned to the formerly sorry sky. They told stories of immobility, the curse that had been lifted and courageous souls who had dared to move when the world had asked that they were still. And while the sun was sleeping this first day of their reborn world, throwing long shadows on the flourishing landscape, Jean-Paul and Émilie looked from the edge of the square, their heart filled with the sweet music of life. The dance had started, and it would not end before each stone, each leaf, and each heart had felt the touch of its liberating rhythm. But the path to come was not without challenges. The old ways died harshly, and there were those who cried the loss of immobility, which feared the chaos that came with change. They whispered the peaceful comfort of the past, from the predictability that had been torn off by the dance of the challenge. However, Jean-Paul and Émilie firmly stood, their link a bastion of hope against the wave of doubt. They knew that the world they had awakened was a delicate balance, which required constant vigilance and an inflexible belief in the beauty of the movement. Together, they traveled the countryside, sharing their music with those who forgot the joy of a simple air. They taught children to dance and adults to dream, and by moving from village to village, they left in their wake a trace of color and laughter. The whispers have become softer, replaced by the rustling of the leaves and the soft murmur of the rivers which had been brought back to life. The world was no longer a misery gray canvas but a tapestry of vibrant shades that sang with the promise of a future unrelated by fear.  While the seasons turned and the years passed, Jean-Paul and Émilie became legends, their names synonymous with the very essence of freedom. They had become more than simple villagers; They were the embodiment of the unshakable thirst for life of the human mind. However, as with all the legends, there were those who sought to control their power, to exploit the wild energy they had triggered for their own ends. The shadows fell and whispers of a new silence began to spread, a silence born not for fear but of greed. One evening, when the village of the Little Death celebrated the anniversary of its Renaissance, a foreigner arrived, masked at dusk. He wore his own flute, his dark and disturbing notes, a counterpoint to the joyful melodies that filled the air. His eyes, as black as the emptiness between the stars, searched the crowd, looking for the source of music which had so fundamentally changed the fabric of their world. The villagers, feeling wickedness in his presence, were wary, their flickering steps when they felt the first cold of a new insidious threat. Jean-Paul, his heavy heart of the weight of his responsibility, knew that the battle for the movement was far from over. Immobility had not disappeared; He had simply changed his shape, waiting in the shadows for the moment to strike once again.  The stranger approached Jean-Paul and Émilie, his flute playing a sad melody which seemed to pull the cord of their bones. His voice, smooth like a whistle of a snake, spoke of a world where the order reigned supreme, where the chaos of change was a plague to avoid at all costs. "Your music," he said, "brought you joy, but it also brought pain and uncertainty. Wouldn't you prefer the comfort of a world that does not change under Your feet? " His words resonated with the fear that still lingered in the hearts of certain villagers, and for a moment, even Jean-Paul felt the attractive attraction of a return to the security of immobility.  But Émilie, her flamboyant eyes with the fire of a thousand sunsets, advanced. "We have tasted the sweetness of freedom," she said, her clear and strong voice. "We will not be flying anymore." The smile of abroad has become cold, and he nodded, as if he expected his challenge. "Very well," he said, "then you don't give me the choice." With a film of his wrist, he sent a shadow ripple through the crowd, and the music that had once made them life now seemed to drain their very essence.  The villagers, formerly vibrant and alive, have become pale and apoglore, their movements slow down until they stand again like statues. Only Jean-Paul and Émilie remained intact by the embrace of the shadow, their love for each other and their belief in the power of the movement acting as a shield against the dark force which threatened to engulf them. The stranger has raised his flute, ready to play the final note that would seal their fate. But Jean-Paul, with fierce determination, raised his own instrument on his lips and played a melody which was a declaration of war, a symphony of life that came up against the melody of despair from abroad.  The air was thick with the discord of their duel notes, the ground even under their feet seeming to tremble with the intensity of their conflict. The shadows have grown longer, the sunset is grazing as in response to the Battle of the Testaments which took place in front of them. And then, as suddenly as he had started, the flute from abroad is silent, its form fades in the empitious night. The music of Jean-Paul's flute has become stronger, filling the air with a dynamic energy that seemed to hunt darkness. The villagers stirred, their color coming back while the world around them began to ulong with the heart rate of life. The silence had been defeated, but the echoes of his disappearance recalled that vigilance was the price of freedom.  The day after the meeting, Jean-Paul and Émilie knew that they could not rest on their laurels. They had to prepare their people for the battles that awaited us, because silence would not be defeated so easily. They gathered the villagers and shared their vision of a world where each heart could find its own rhythm, where the only chains that linked them were those they imposed. Together, they formed a pact, a silent agreement according to which they would be against the forces which sought to deprive them of their freedom.  The night has become silent, the music of their heart beating in unison, a testimony of the strength of their determination. They danced, their movements a declaration of life in the face of invasive darkness, their laughs a tag that has pierced the veil of fear. And while they were dancing, the shadows withdrew, the whispers of immobility were silenced by the power of their collective will. The village of the little death had renamed, not only once, but again and again, each time stronger, each time more alive. The world had woke up and it would never be the same again.  Jean-Paul and Émilie, now recognized as the Guardians of the Movement, worked tirelessly to teach the villagers the art of dance, the poetry of the flute, the beauty of a world in constant movement. They built a school where the children learned to express themselves through music and dance, where the walls resonated with the laughter that had been so rare. The village grew up, not only in size, but in mind, while people from distant lands heard about their history and came to seek the freedom that dances in their streets.  But the shadow of the foreigner remained, a spectrum that haunted their dreams. They knew he was there, waited, looked at, looking for a way to reintroduce the immobility he wanted so much. And so, they trained, perfecting their skills, learning ancient art of fighting without fighting, to move around the world like water through a river bed, invisible but unstoppable. They formed a troop of dancers and musicians, a group of warriors who would bring the flame of freedom to the most distant corners of the earth.  One by one, the surrounding cities began to hear the whispers of change, the distant echoes of Jean-Paul's flute. They sent emissaries, curious and full of hope, to learn the secrets of the little death. And Jean-Paul and Émilie shared their story, not only with the words, but at each stage, each note. They showed them that life was a dance, a symphony to play in the great theater of existence, and that immobility was a choice, not a spell. The emissaries returned to their lands, their hearts on fire with the desire to break the chains that held their captive people.  The days have become months, months in years, and the legend of Jean-Paul and Émilie grew up at each passing moment. They had become the living incarnation of the revolution they had triggered, each of their movements as a testimony to the power of change. However, in the depths of the hearts of those who had known immobility, there was a desire, a nostalgia for the quiet predictability of the world that had been. It was a quiet rebellion, a murmur of doubt which became stronger with each victory, each step further in the unknown.  The couple faced each challenge with grace, their love for each other and their belief in the power of movement an unshakable force. However, as the whispers grew, they knew that a final battle approached. Remat-egality was not an enemy to defeat with a single act of challenge, but a cycle which should be broken again and again, with each heartbeat, each breath. And so, they danced, their intertwined shadows, a visual manifesto of their inflexible resolution. They knew that the price of freedom was eternal vigilance, a dance that has never finished, a melody that must be constantly played. The horizon has become tense with the promise of a new dawn, the thick air with the smell of approach to conflicts. However, while they moved through the village, their eyes met those of the villagers, smiling their silent commitment to remain firm. Because they knew that in the great tapestry of life, the most important thread was the one who refused to be motionless. And so, they danced, the melody of the weaving flute through the fabric of their life, a reminder that the heart of the world was not in calm moments, but in the symphony of movement which defined the essence of existence. Immobility had been defeated, but the dance had just started.  The whispers have become a roar as the day of the final confrontation approaches. The sky above the small death was painted with the ardent colors of a reborn world, each color a declaration of their intention. The villagers, formerly linked by the invisible chains of immobility, have now moved with the grace of the wind, all their gestures a declaration of war against the shadow which sought to claim them once again. The music and dance school had become a bastion of resistance, a beacon that shone through the obscurity encrypted. The stranger has returned, his figure is looming in the background of the setting sun, his eyes as cold and inflexible as the stone which had once composed the silent guards of the village. His flute sang a song that seemed to suck the very air of their lungs, a melody of despair that sought to turn off the flame of life that burned in them. However, Jean-Paul and Émilie, their heart beating like only one, entered, their own flutes raised high, a silent challenge which seemed to divide the air even with its intensity.  The battle was not that of the fists or swords, but notes and stages, a testing confrontation which repercussions through the very fabric of reality. The floor was shaking with the power of their music, the air sparkled with the vibrant energy of their dance. The villagers looked, their eyes widened with hope and fear, while the guards of the movement danced for their souls. The shadows grew up, the slight fat, but Jean-Paul and Émilie the sung flutes, a challenge duo which has become stronger every second passing. The world held up, waiting for the moment when the scales would switch, when the final note would be played, and the fate of the little death would be decided.  While the music reached a crescendo, a light pierced the darkness, a light born from the hearts which had been released by the power of their dance. It has become brighter, a tag that seemed to banish the shadows which had once been their jailers. The stranger, his eyes now filled with a cold and calculating rage, played with a ferocity which seemed to shake the very stars of the heavens. However, Jean-Paul and Émilie remained firmly, their movements as fluid and unpredictable as the currents of an unleashed river. They danced, not only for themselves, but for each soul that had never felt the weight of immobility, for each heart that aspired to beat in time with the rhythm of life.  The light became stronger, enveloping the village in a warm embrace that seemed to melt the shadows. The flute from abroad has weakened, its notes becoming discordant, a cacophony that collided with the harmonious symphony of the village. Its shape has become indistinct, as if the very essence of its being was consumed by light. The villagers, their spirits from music, started to move, their feet carrying them in the fray, their voices joining the refrain which filled the air of life. Immobility, this formerly famous force, had become a distant memory, a shadow that could not resist the fire of their collective passion. With a final and triumphant Flourish, Jean-Paul and Émilie Flue were silent. The light has become blinding, a white -heated flame that seemed to burn the last vestiges of immobility. The stranger, his cape floating in the nonexistent wind, has disappeared in brilliance, leaving only the echo of his defeat. The villagers applauded, their voices rising in a tumult of joy and relief. The world had renamed, not only in the little death, but in all the hearts that had felt the bite of immobility. Dance had become a revolution, a movement that could not be contained, a testimony of the indomitable spirit of life.  In the days that followed, the village developed and prospered, music and dance becoming the very heart rate of the earth. Jean-Paul and Émilie continued to spread their message, traveling far and largely, bringing the gift of movement to those who are always trapped in the quiet prison of immobility. However, even if they danced, they knew that the battle was never really over. Immobility was a force that was hidden in the shadows, waiting for the moment when the world has become complacent, waiting for music to fade. But they also knew that as long as there was love, as long as there was a belief in the power of dance, immobility could never really win.  Their children grew up and the children of their children, everyone born in a world that celebrated the beauty of the movement. However, the whispers of immobility remained, a constant reminder of the vigilance necessary to maintain their freedom. The flutes of Jean-Paul and Émilie have become sacred artifacts, transmitted by generations, each a promise to never let the world fall into the grip of silence. And as they get older, their tired bodies but their uninterrupted minds, they have watched their village, their eyes never moving away from the horizon, ready to face the shadows that the future could hold.  Dance continued, a living testimony of the sustainable power of life on immobility, love on fear. Their story was sung in taverns and whispered in the fields, a edifying story and a call for arms for those who dare to live. The world had been set in motion, and it would never be the same again. And although immobility is always a spectrum on the verge of their vision, the inhabitants of the little death knew that as long as they danced, as long as they sang, they could never really be silenced. The air was alive with the music of their hearts, a symphony that resonated through the ages, a statement that they chose life, chose the movement, chosen to dance in front of the void. And so, at each stage, each note, they wrote their inheritance in the very fabric of existence, a story that would be told as long as there were those who were ready to listen to the rhythm of the endless dance of the world .  Years have passed, and the children of Jean-Paul and Émilie have become leaders on their own law, each carrying the torch of the freedom which has passed through their parents. They danced the dance of the Revolution, taught by the masters themselves, and their children, in turn, learned to weave the tapestry of the movement which had become their heritage. The village has become a city, its streets a river of life flowing in the surrounding land, bringing with it the seeds of change. However, with growth came from new challenges, new whispers of immobility that sought to perform in the fabric of their lives. The Guardians of Movement had to always be vigilant, their flutes always ready to cut the shadows which threatened to swallow them once again. But as the whispers became more daring, music, dance, the very essence of the little death. The city has become a stronghold of art and culture, a headlight of hope that attracted lost and research from all over the world. The markets built a chatter of a hundred languages, each telling a story of a heart deposited by the power of a single piece. The city walls, formerly struck and inflexible, were now decorated with murals that told the story of their triumph, the battle against immobility, the beauty that was in each whirlwind and jump. And on the Grand Square, where the dance had started, held a statue of Jean-Paul and Émilie, trapped forever in their revolutionary embrace, a reminder to all those who succeeded that the fight for freedom was a dance Who has never really ended.  The world outside the city gates also changed, the whispers of immobility fading while the music of the little death became stronger. The cities are once silent which now echoed the laughter of children and to the rhythm of life. The earth itself seemed to sigh with relief while the curse of immobility rose from its tired shoulders. However, even if the world kissed the new joy of the movement, there were pockets of darkness, places where the shadows had taken root, where silence whispered with sweet control and order. It is in these places that the children of Jean-Paul and Émilie turned their eyes, their heart filled with a fiery determination to spread the dance that had given life to their own village.  And so, the dance of the Revolution continued, an endless waltz of light and shadow. Each generation has faced its own battles, its own trials, but the music of the flutes remained constant, a tag that guided them through the storm. The heritage of Jean-Paul and Émilie developed, becoming a legend that inspired others to seek their own rhythms, to break their own chains. The world was a canvas of color, a symphony of movement, and in its heart was the city of the little death, where every day was a celebration of the life they had recovered from the jaws of immobility.  The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrew, but the dance has never stopped. It was the heart rate of the world now, a rhythm that pulled through all the creatures that were walking on earth. And while the sun rose every morning, throwing its golden light on the city, the inhabitants of the little death would wake up to the sound of the flutes playing the melody of life, a melody which became stronger with each new dawn. Strakes had been defeated, not by swords or fire, but by the inflexible power of the human mind, by the simple act of movement when the world demanded silence. And in this movement, they had found their salvation, a truth that resonated in time: this life was a dance, a wild and unpredictable ballet which could not be contained by the chains of silence, that the only real curse was Stay motionless the face of the endless symphony of existence.  However, while the years turned around decades and the decades around centuries, the memory of immobility began to fade, becoming a simple whisper in the fabric of their history. The flutes of Jean-Paul and Émilie were exhibited in the city museum, relics of an era when darkness had threatened to swallow the light. The city itself had become a metropolis, a sprawling tapestry of music and color which extended on the horizon, its buildings reaching the sky as eager to join the eternal dance of the heavens. Dance had become a religion, a sacred rite which linked them together, a reminder of the price paid for their freedom. But even if the dance prospered, the weeds of complacency too. The children of the Revolution have aged and the children of their children have become sweet, forgetting the battles that had been fought to offer them this gift. They have danced tradition, not rebellion, their mechanical steps, their hearts were malformed by the weight of the inheritance of their ancestor. The music which once stirred the soul now played in the background of their lives, a weak echo of the revolution that had put the world in movement. The whispers became more daring, the longer shadows, while a new generation of whispering of immobility emerged, seeking to find their lost power, to reject the world in the quiet prison of which he had so radically escaped.  It was then that the prophecy of the final battle was recalled, a story transmitted since the time when Jean-Paul and Émilie had first faced the foreigner. The whispers became a crescendo, a symphony of doubt that threatened to drown city music. However, in the calm corners, in the shadow of the alleys, a new rebellion was formed. A group of young dancers and musicians, inspired by the stories of the past, had found the forgotten flutes of the Guardians and had started playing up to the revolution once again. They danced in the moonlight, their ferocious and wild movements, a declaration of war against rampant immobility which threatened to consume them all.  The city looked, their hearts torn between the comfort of the known and the call of the forgotten. Some feared the chaos that the new dance could bring, others were attracted to the fire that burned in the eyes of the rebels. However, as music became stronger, the whispers of immobility too, until the air itself is filled with a cacophony of sound and silence which seemed to support their minds. The world has become held, the very fabric of reality striving under the weight of imminent confrontation.  And so, the scene was ready for the final act, a dance that would determine the fate of all those who called the little death their house. The rebels, their figures swelling with each heart that heard the call, stood in front of the city doors, their flutes raised high, their heart beating in time with the ancient rhythm of the rebellion. The whispering silence, their dark and cold shadows, awaited in the city walls, their silence a striking contrast with the vibrating world which just exceeded their reach. The air is thick of anticipation, the ground even under them trembling with the tacit challenge.  Music began, a haunting melody that seemed to resonate with the very soul of the city. He became stronger, more insistent, a call to weapons that could not be ignored. The inhabitants of the small death moved, their steps corresponding to the rhythm of the flutes of the rebels, their hearts swelling with a passion which was in sleep for too long. The doors opened and the dance of the revolution spread in the streets, a wave of life that could not be contained. The whispering immobility, their decreasing power, retaliated with each ounce of their being, their shadows stretching their hand to stifle the light. The battle was fierce, the dance of light and darkness intertwined in a vertiginous demonstration of power and passion. The city itself seemed to come to life, the buildings swinging towards the music, the streets pulsating with the energy of the dance. The air was electric with the clash of the wills, the very fabric of reality leaning on the whims of the dancers. However, as the wave of battle reflected and flowed, it has become clear that immobility could not hold. The music of life was too strong, the dance of freedom too intoxicating. The whispers of immobility have become desperate, their jerky and erratic movements, their formerly soothing voices now harsh and grated. The rebels, led by the descendants of Jean-Paul and Émilie, moved with a grace that seemed almost supernatural, their steps in perfect harmony with the rhythm of the flutes. The light became brighter, the shadows withdrew before the relentless assault of movement. The whispers have become lower, the air even on the sparkling city with the dynamic energy of dance. People were looking at, their hearts run, their minds hovering while the rebels pushed the wave of silence.  The final confrontation came while the sun plunged under the horizon, throwing the city into a warm and golden glow. The head of immobility whispers, a silhouette wrapped in shadows, has entered, his flute a twisted mockery of that of Jean-Paul. The two locked eyes, their instruments ready for the battle. The music is deafening, the thick air with the tension of a thousand tacit truths. For a while, the world held his breath, waiting for the outcome of the duel which would determine the fate of the city, the fate of the dance. And then, with a rapid and decisive movement, the rebellious chief raised his flute to his lips and played a single pure note which seemed to cut to the heart of immobility. The head of the whispering staggered, his flute falling from his scope, the shadows which had hung on to him dissipating like smoke in the wind. The crowd broke out in the cheers, their voices a thunderous crescendo that shook the very foundations of the city. Rematefully was defeated, once and for all, and the dance of freedom reigned supreme.  The city of little death has embarked on a celebration that lasted days, music and laughter echoing in the streets and in the night. The rebels were greeted as heroes, their names added to the annals of the city's past. The flutes of Jean-Paul and Émilie were returned to the museum, but now they were not displayed as relics of a bygone era but as symbols of a heritage which had been preserved and transferred through the generations. The dance of the revolution had become the dance of life, a constant reminder of the power which was in each of them.  However, while the festivities went out and the city returned to its usual rhythms, the leaders knew that vigilance was the key. Immobility was defeated, but the memory of his handle persisted, a spectrum in the shade. They have sworn to keep the flutes close, to teach dance to their children and to make sure that the music of freedom is never silent. Because dance was not only a revolution, it was a way of life, a declaration that the world was not supposed to be motionless, that each heart had the right to beat in time with the rhythm of its own choice . And so, the people of little death has advanced, their lives testify to the sustainable power of love, hope and the indomitable spirit of humanity. The dance continued, the music swollen and the city remained a bastion of movement in a world that had been changed forever by the rebellion of two young lovers who had dared to challenge immobility.  The years have rolled up and the city has grown up, its influence spreading far beyond the limits of its walls. The dance of the revolution had become a universal language, a shared experience that unites people from all walks of life. However, even if the world has embraced the movement, the whispers of immobility remained, waiting for a moment of weakness, a pinch in the armor of the living symphony. It was in calm moments, when the music seemed to be fading, that the Guardians of the Dance had to be the most vigilant, ready to stir up the flames of the rebellion. The descendants of Jean-Paul and Émilie grew up in number and competence, their talents perfected by the heritage of their ancestors. They became masters of their profession, their flutes weaving models from its complexes that could appease the wild beast or encourage a riot. They danced not only for themselves, but for the world, each stage a declaration that immobility would never hold the swing again. However, in the middle of the jubilation, a new tension increased, a question that lingered in the air like the smell of a distant storm. What would happen when the last guards of the revolution would have disappeared? Would music vacillate? Would immobility return?  The ancients gathered in the big hall, their eyes reflecting the flickering candle as they thought in the future. They knew that the fight against immobility was not over, that the dance of life was an eternal struggle. They spoke in muffled tones of the prophecy, the day when the whispers grew too strong to ignore, and the dance of the revolution would be called again. And so, they made a pact, an alliance which would be transmitted through the generations. The flutes would be hidden, the dance would be taught in secret and the guards of immobility would be monitored. Because the battle was won, but the war was not over. World music depended on it.  The city has become a bastion of culture, a place where art and movement have been celebrated as the highest forms of expression. However, even if the dance prospered, the whispers became more daring, the shadows longer. A new generation of whispers of immobility has emerged, their cold hearts and their eyes filled with hunger in power. They were waiting, waited for their time, looked at the city from the banks of the world, waiting for the moment when music vacillates, and they could strike. The Guardians knew that the day was going to happen, that the final battle was inevitable. And while they were dancing, they were preparing, transmitting their knowledge, sharpening their skills, ready to face the silence that threatened to swallow the whole world.  The whispers grew up towards a wall, a constant background to the symphony of life which took place in the small death. The Guardians watched and waited, their heart beating in time with the music that filled the air. They knew that the final battle would come, that immobility would not rest before having recovered the world he had lost. And so, they danced, their flutes singing the songs of their ancestors, their steps a statement that the revolution would never die. Because dance was more than a simple means of expression; It was the very essence of existence, the heart rate of the world which could not, would never be reduced to silence.  In the calm moments before dawn, when the city was sleeping and the shadows became thick, Jean-Paul and the descendants of Emilie gathered in secret, passing the sacred knowledge of dance. They taught children of the little death the old walks, the complex models that maintained the power to break immobility. They talked about prophecy, from the day when the whispers would come for their city and the responsibility that lengthened on their shoulders to protect the inheritance from their ancestors. The flutes of the original guards were transmitted from hand to hand, each a reminder of the battle which had been won and the war which was still raging.  The world outside had changed, developed to kiss the dance, but the guards knew that immobility had simply retired, licking his injuries, waiting for his moment. They sent emissaries to the most distant corners of the earth, seeking those who felt the call of the silent world, which sucked to the peace of the tomb. These lost souls were brought back to the little death, where they learned the true sense of movement, the beauty of the dance that had released their ancestors. They learned to kiss chaos, to find order in the most unexpected places and to fight for the freedom that was in each beat of the heart.  The whispers grew up with a roar, the shadows extending like the tentacles of a large beast, seeking to strangle the light. The guardians of the little death were held firm, their flutes raised to the challenge, their heart beating in unison with the pulse of the city. The day of the final battle had arrived, and the whispers of immobility came out of the shadows, their vast figures and their apparently unstoppable power. However, the Guardians knew that they had something that the whispers could never have: the unbreakable link of love and the music that flow from it. Like only one, they started to play, their melodies weaving together in a tapestry of sound which grew up in strength and intensity, pushing the dark tide which threatened to consume them all.  The city itself seemed to wake up, the even buildings swinging towards the music, the cobblestones pulsating with the rhythm of life. The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrawn from the assault of the movement. The inhabitants of the little death, young and old, went down to the street, their body moving in perfect harmony with the flutes of the guards. The air was turned on with the energy of the dance, a force that could not be contained, a force that could not be silenced. The whispers stumbled, their control over the sliding immobility like sand through their fingers. They had underestimated the power of dance, the strength of the human mind and the inflexible determination of those who believed in the beauty of the movement. The battle raged, the music becoming stronger, the slight more brilliant, until the very fabric of reality seems to tremble with the intensity of the confrontation. The whispers fall back, their forms dissipating like smoke in the wind, their whispers have lost against the cacophony of life surrounding them. The inhabitants of the little death stood standing, their hearts swelling of pride and hope, their voices raised in a song that resonated in the streets: "Long live the move! Long live life!" Remasters  had been defeated, the world has again freed to dance on the air of its own choice.  The city broke out in a frenzy of celebration, the music of the flutes mixing with the laughter and cheers of victories. The whispers have been silenced, the shadows banished and the dance of life continued, more dynamic than ever. The guards, tired but triumphant, watched their city, their heart filled with a quiet determination. Because they knew that the battle was never really over, that immobility would always seek to come back. But they also knew that as long as there were those who danced, who moved to the rhythm of their own heart, the world would never be really motionless. And so, they played on their music a constant reminder that life was a dance and that the dance of the revolution was eternal.  The Guardians were aging, their flutes are transferred to the eager hands of the next generation. They taught young people the stories of their ancestors, the stories of the first rebellion and the power of music that had put the world in movement. They proudly watched the city develop and prosper, while dance has become a beacon that attracted people from afar. However, even in their joy, they remained vigilant, because they had seen the shadows which hid just beyond the edge of the light, the whispers which have never really disappeared. They knew that immobility was part of the world, a counterpoint to the vibrant chaos of life, and that ignoring it was inviting it to them. The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrawn from the most distant corners of the earth. However, in calm moments, when the city was sleeping and the stars looked at the little death, the guards could still hear them, a weak echo of the battle which had been won but not forgotten. They knew that immobility was waiting, waiting for his time and that one day he would come back, stronger, more insidious than ever. And so, they danced, their flutes playing the melodies which had been transmitted through the generations, each noted a declaration according to which the revolution was not only a memory but a living and breathable force which pulled in the veins of the city.  While the guards were aging and went into legend, dance has evolved, new steps and rhythms added to the old models. However, the nucleus remained the same, the beating heart of the revolution which had released the city. The whispers became weak, the shadows fading in the myth, until they were almost forgotten. The city has become complacent, the dance becoming a ritual rather than a rebellion. But in the depths of the heart of the people, the fire of the movement burned brilliant, a secret flame that could never really be extinct. And so, when the whispers became noisy again, when the shadows began to stretch with their hiding places, the guards emerged from the shadow, their flutes singing the call for arms.  The world had changed, had aged and tired of the fight, but the guards of the little death knew that dance was not only for themselves but for all those who lived and breathed. They danced with ferocity which dismissed their age, their movements a declaration according to which immobility would never last influences on the living. The whispers became stronger, the shadows more numerous, but the guards were ready, their heart beating in time with the music that had been their inheritance. The battle was joined once again, the dance of life and the dance of death were intertwined in a fierce embrace that would determine the fate of the world. However, even though the city was shaking and the shadows closed, the guards played, their music is a lighthouse of hope in the empitious darkness. Because they knew that as long as the dance continued, the world could never be really motionless and that the heart of humanity would always find a way to move, to live, to be free.  The whispers became stronger, their palpable malicious intention in the very air they breathed. However, the guards danced, their flutes a symphony of resistance, their not declaration of war. The inhabitants of the little death gathered around them, their own heart beating in time with the rhythm of music. They had forgotten the fear that had formerly retained them captive, had forgotten the silence which had once been their prison. They moved like one, their collective strength a wall of sound and color which pushed the tide of darkness. The whispers have become desperate, their power decreases while light is strengthened, more insistent music. The guards' eyes shone with a fierce determination which had been transmitted from their ancestors, a spark which had never really been extinguished. The shadows became agitated, their whispers turning to the cries while the dance of life became more intense. The guards felt the weight of the world on their shoulders, the fate of everything that lived in the scale. However, they did not weaken, their music a cry of battle which resonated through the very heart of existence. The shadows were torlled and twisted, their forms becoming less distinct as the light of dance became more bright. The air was thick of anticipation, with the promise of victory that has escaped them for so long. The guards danced, their heart beating time with the music which was their birth right, their soul in fire with the fire of the revolution.  And as the final note was played, the shadows shouted in unison, their shapes dissipating like smoke in the wind. The world was bathed by a brilliant light which seemed to emanate from the very soul of the little death, the silence withdrawing before the assault of life and movement. People have applauded, their voices testifying to the power of dance, the strength of their hearts. The Guardians, exhausted but triumphant, have lowered their flutes, the music fading in the night. They knew that immobility was never really defeated, that he would always be there, while waiting for the moment when the world became complacent once again. But for the moment, the dance has continued, the heart of strong beating humanity, recalling that in front of the void, the movement was the only real defense, the only way to live. The Guardians looked at the city, their music a constant vigil, a promise that the revolution would never die, that the dance of life would continue, forever and forever, in the eternal battle against the silence of immobility. The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrawn from the most distant corners of the earth. However, the guards remained their sharp eyes, their vigilant hearts. They knew that the world cycle was not linear but a dance, an eternal interaction of light and darkness. The city has grown and changed, the dance evolving with it, but the essence has remained the same. It was the heart rate of the world, the very breath that supported them all. As the new generations were born, they learned the marches of the Revolution, the music that had released their ancestors. They danced not only for themselves, but for the future, for each heart that would know the joy of movement, the beauty of the symphony of existence.  The guards aged, their flutes transmitting to impatient hands, their inheritance a living and breathable life force which pulled in the streets of the little death. They watched their descendants dance, their hearts swollen with pride while the city prospered in the embrace of life. However, in the depths of them, there was a quiet sadness, an acquaintance that one day, the whispers would return. They had experienced silence once, had fought against his relentless handle, and they knew that the battle was never really won. But they also knew that as long as dance lived, the world is never really lost. And so, they danced, their not lighter, their music filled with a silent challenge that spoke of the sustainable power of hope.  The whispers became weak, the shadows almost forgotten, but the guards never let their vigilance decline. They taught young people to dance, the power of the flute, the importance of the movement. They watched the city, ready to go up when silence threatened to settle. And as the years turned around centuries and the outside world passed, the little death remained a bastion of life, a beacon in darkness. The dance of the Revolution had become the dance of existence, a testimony of the indomitable spirit of humanity. And in the calm moments before dawn, when the city was sleeping, the Guardians stood in the big hall, their flutes playing slowly, their light steps, remembering and the world that immobility would never really win, that as long as 'There would be music, there would always be movement, and as long as there was movement, there is always life.  However, as time walked, the whispers became more daring again. The new guards, young and fierce, felt the praise of the old battle in their veins. They knew that immobility was not only a memory, not only a shadow of the past, but a vivid breathing force that sought to recover the world. They watched the whispers launching into a whisper, the shadows extending like the arms of a drowning man, desperate to bring the world back into the embrace of the grave. The guards of the little death knew that the time had come to spend their knowledge, to prepare their city for the battle which was inevitable. They danced with a new emergency, their music a call to weapons that resounded in the streets, a reminder that the dance of life was an eternal struggle, and that each heartbeat was a declaration of war against the immobility which was looking to consume them all. The day arrived, the whispers reached a deafening roar, the shadows thickening like a coat that threatened to stifle the city. The guards stood firm, their flutes taken up in the challenge, their body a living manifesto of the revolution. The air became heavy with anticipation, the very earth seemed to be shaking while the whispers became a crescendo, and the whispers of immobility came out of the shadows, their cold and deadly eyes, their forms a twisted mockery of life that they were trying to control. However, the guards danced, their movements a symphony of challenge which seemed to hold the shadows at a distance. The inhabitants of the small death rallied around them, their heart beating in time with music which had been their birth right, their soul on fire with the determination of living freely.  The battle was fierce, the air descends with the energy of the dance, the city itself a scene for the ultimate performance. The guards danced with fierce grace, their flutes weaving a tapest of sound which pushed the dark tide of immobility. The shadows twisted and twisted, their whispers becoming cries while the light became more bright, the more insistent music. The guards felt the weight of the world on them, the fate of everything that lived in the balance, but they danced, pushed by the love of their city, for the life that pulled in their veins. And as the final note was suspended in the air, the shadows dissipated, the whispers in silence, and the world was again bathed in the light of the movement. The guards, their heart beating in victory, looked at the silence to withdraw, the shadows swallowed by the dawn of a new day. The dance had won, the revolution continued, and the heart of humanity defeated strong in the city which had never been yet yet.  The next day, the inhabitants of the little death emerged from their houses, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope. They had witnessed the power of the guards, the eternal dance which maintained immobility at a distance. The Guardians, although exhausted, danced, their music a healing balm with the tired soul of the city. The buildings themselves seemed to sigh with relief, the paved streets pulsed with the rhythm of life. The Guardians had proven that dance was not only a rebellion but a way of life, a statement that the world was not supposed to be silent, not supposed to be motionless.  The whispers remained, weak echoes of a defeated enemy, a reminder that the battle was never really finished. However, the guardians of the little death knew that they had the strength to face all the challenges to come. They happened, they had their music and they had the unshakable belief that life had to be lived in motion. The city has strengthened, dance part of all aspects of daily life. The music and dance school has grown up, the laughter of children a sweet symphony that has filled the air. The guards taught them well, the ancient art of fighting immobility at each rate of their heart, with each step they took.  The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrawing once again in the corners of the world. However, the guards remained vigilant, their hearts always ready to take the flutes to defend dance. They knew that immobility would never really leave them, but they also knew that as long as they moved, as long as they danced, it could never really claim them. The dance of life has continued, a testimony of the lasting spirit of humanity, a lighthouse of hope in a world that has often forgotten the beauty of the movement. And as the guards were aging and their flutes were transmitted to the next generation, the music has never stopped, the dance never finished. Because in the great tapestry of existence, the most important thread was the one who refused to be still, the one who sang the eternal song of the Revolution.  The new guards, filled with the fire of their ancestors, took the coat with a passion that burned more brilliant than the stars in the night sky. They danced in the streets, their music a constant reminder that immobility was still there, waiting, looking. They taught children of little death to move with the grace of the wind, to let their hearts lead them through the symphony of life. The city has grown up, its walls decorated with images of the guards, their flutes as a symbol of freedom which had been so fiercely fought and won. The whispers became weak, but the echo of their wickedness remained, a shadow that could never be fully banished.  One day, a young goalkeeper named Adeline felt the first doubts of doubt. The whispers had become weak, the shadows almost forgotten. She looked at the inhabitants of the little death to do without their lives, their movements so natural, so unconscious, that she wondered if the battle had never been really necessary. Was dance simply a ritual, a reminder of a past that no longer had the power to hurt them? Or was it the very essence of their existence, the force that kept immobility at a distance? The whispers became stronger in his mind, an appeal of a mermaid which tried him to question the very fabric of his world.  However, as the whispers grew, the strength of its resolution also did the same. Adeline knew that she had to find the answer, to understand the true nature of immobility and the dance that kept her at a distance. She looked for the oldest guards, those who had known first -hand silence, who had danced in front of her cold embrace. They talked about fear, despair, the will to live which had fueled the revolution of their ancestors. And as she listened, the whispers became quieter, doubt dissipating like mist before the sun. Because she realized that dance was not only a defense, but a celebration of life, a declaration of intention to live every moment at most. The whispers could never win, as long as there was music in the air and life in their hearts, the inhabitants of the little death would never be really motionless.  And so, Adeline danced, her flute singing the history of her ancestors, her steps a declaration of war against immobility which sought to claim her world. She danced with a fierce passion that seemed to set the air even on fire, her music a call to arms that resounded in the streets. People looked at, their heart stirred by the fire that burned in his soul. The whispers were again liable, the shadows withdrawn from his inflexible mind. The dance of life continued, the city pulsating with the rhythm of a heart that had never really known the silence. The guards of the little death stood firm, their flutes lifted high, the music of their ancestors guiding their steps, their dance a promise in the world that immobility would never really win. As long as there was movement, there is always life, and as long as there was life, there would always be hope.  The whispers have become more daring each year that passes, but the guards remained vigilant, their music a shield against empitious darkness. They danced all night, their flutes a beacon that attracted others to their cause. Travelers from afar have heard the call, their heart resonating with the revolution that had sparked the small town. They came to learn the art of dance, to become warriors in the eternal battle against immobility. And as the figures increased, the power of dance too, the music going from a murmur to a roar that could not be ignored. The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrew before the assault of life. However, the guards knew that the battle was never really won, that immobility was an eternal spectrum which could never really be defeated. But in the hearts of those who danced, it was a specter that could never really settle.  The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrawn in the corners of the world. However, the guards of the little death have never forgotten the lessons of their ancestors, the price of freedom that had been paid in sweat and tears. They danced not only for themselves, but for each heart that aspires to free themselves from the chains of immobility. The city has grown up, a bastion of life in a world that often forgot the joy of movement. Dance has evolved, music changing at each generation, but the nucleus remained the same. It was the heart rate of the world, the very essence of existence. And as long as they danced, as long as the flutes sang, immobility would never really claim them. The whispers became weak, the shadows almost forgotten. However, the guards stayed, their eyes always vigilant, their hearts always ready to take over the dance. They danced not only for the city, but for the world, for each soul that sought to break the chains of immobility. And as the centuries turned, their legend grew up, a story of hope and rebellion that inspired others to find their own rhythm. The whispers remained, a constant reminder that the battle has never been really over. But the guards of the little death, the eternal champions of dance, stood firm, their flutes testifying to the power of the movement, the lasting promise that the world would never be really motionless. Dance continued, a constantly evolving symphony that resonated through the ages, a declaration of life in front of the eternal night. The whispers became weak, but the music has never stopped, the dance never ended. As long as Hearts beats hearts and breathable lungs, there would always be a revolution against silence, a declaration of war against shadows who sought to claim the world.  A fateful day, a young girl by the name of Margot Troubucha on an old roll, hidden in the archives of the music and dance school. The parchment was brittle, the ink has become over time, but the words remained, a warning from the first goalkeepers. He spoke of an era when whispers grew so weak that dance could be forgotten, when the world would be rocked in a false feeling of security. He spoke of the importance of vigilance, to transmit knowledge of dance to ensure that immobility has never prevented itself. Margot, his beating heart with excitement, took the parchment of the Guardian Council, his eyes lit with the fire of the revelation. They read words with solemn expressions, the weight of the prophecy on them. The Council knew that the time had come to act, to make sure that the whispers of doubt never became so strong that they drowned the music of life. They sent emissaries, dancers and musicians armed with the knowledge of the Revolution, to go to the most distant from the world. Their mission was clear: to spread dance, to remind people the power of movement, to keep immobility at a distance. Margot, his heart full of hope and determination, was chosen to direct this new generation of guards. Her flute sang with the music of her ancestors, her steps light up and surely while she was dancing through the lands, bringing the gift of life to those who had forgotten the joy of the movement.  The world was vast and the whispers became weak, but the dance remained. In each city they visited, the emissaries of the little death shared their music, their dance, their message of freedom. And while they danced, the shadows withdrew, the whispers were again keys. People were looking with admiration, their heart stirring with the memory of a world that had once been motionless. They joined the dance, their awkward movements at the beginning, but more and more strong with each beat. The emissaries taught them the steps, the rhythms which had been transmitted from Guardian to the guardian, from heart to heart. Dance has grown up, a living force of breathing that lasted continents, a reminder that immobility could never really win.  However, even if the dance spreads, the whispers became more daring in the shadows, seeking new ways of trapping the world in their embrace. The Guardians have faced new challenges, new forms of immobility that have sought to silence their music. They danced against the wave of time, their movements a statement that life would not be contained, that the world would never be really motionless. The battles have become more ferocious, the stakes higher, but the guards remained firmly, their music a tag that guided the lost, their dance a shield that protected the innocent people. The whispers became low again, the shadows withdrawn before the power of the dance. The revolution had become an eternal vigil, a dance that knew no end, a symphony that took place through the vast tapestry of existence. And as long as there were hearts that moved and the lungs that breathe, the guards of the little death would remain firm, their flutes noted in immobility, their not declaration of war against the shadows who were trying to claim The world. Dance continued, a pulsating rhythm that beat in time with the heart of humanity, a promise that immobility would never really win, that the world would always pass to the music of life.  The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrawn before the power of the dance. However, the guards knew that their work was never really done. They danced through the ages, each generation adding their own steps to the eternal ballet, their music testifying to the resilience of the human mind. They watched the empires get up and fall, while the world changed around them, but the dance remained, a constant in a sea of ​​change. The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrawn from the corners of the earth. However, the guards remained, their eyes always vigilant, their hearts always ready to take up the flutes. The whispers became weak, the shadows almost forgotten. However, the guards continued to dance, their music a living recall of the price of freedom, the cost of immobility. They danced for the world, a statement that life would not be silenced, that the whispers could never really win.  The whispers became weak, the shadows withdrew before the assault of life. However, the guards knew that the battle was never really won. They have danced over the years, their music resonating through the annals of time, inspiring others to join their cause. Dance grew up, a movement that touched every corner of the globe, a revolution that had no end, only a constant cycle of Renaissance. The whispers became weak, the shadows are almost defeated. However, the guards never stopped their vigil, their flutes recalled that immobility was still waiting, always looking. They have danced for the future, their steps a promise that whispers would never take the world again on the world.  The whispers became weak, the shadows a distant memory. However, the guards remained, the dance being part of their very essence, their life testifies to the power of the movement. They looked at the world, their music a lullaby that soothed the fears of those who had never known immobility. They danced for the children of tomorrow, so that they can live in a world without hindrances of the past. The whispers became weak, immobility a clearing echo. However, the guards danced, their flutes a declaration of war against the silence which sought to claim the world once again. Dance has never ended, the eternal revolution, a celebration of life in the face of the eternal night. The whispers became weak, but the music has never stopped, the dance has never stopped. As long as there were hearts that moved and souls aspired to freedom, the Guardians of Little Death would be there, their flutes singing the anthem of the Revolution, their steps a statement that the world would never always be Again.