In the quiet hours before dawn, when shadows elongate and the world holds its breath, a phenomenon of inexplicable origin captures attention. It is not seen but felt, a gentle caress of cold air that dances past like the echo of an unidentifiable melody.
Observers report glimpses—flickers of the unseen, moments captured and discarded as mere tricks of light. However, the truth lies beneath the surface, waiting to be excavated by those who dare traverse the boundaries of perception.
"They are not lost, these spirits," says a local historian, "but wanderers, seeking the warmth of human acknowledgement, forever bound to this ephemeral plane."