Through the prism, the night hummed a song of dusk whispers. Evelyn always felt awake in dreams yet never entirely convinced of her waking state. She walked along the bridge that was not a bridge, but rather a seam in the sky stitched by silver threads of starlight.

"What is it to dream, if dreaming is but the seconds between heartbeats?" she pondered aloud, her voice echoing against the symphony of crickets and distant moonlit waves. An owl, wise and knowing, perched nearby, offering no words, only an understanding gaze.

A translucent figure formed beside her, flickering like the reflection of candlelight upon a still window. "I am the thought you cast away under morning's hand," it replied, "like pebbles skipping over the lake."

Evelyn reached out, expecting to touch the ephemeral, to weave it into reality. Yet as her fingers brushed, it dissipated into a thousand fireflies, each carrying a fragment of unspoken wisdom.

And then came the whispers, voices from corridors unseen, echoing truths half-remembered. "Follow us," they beckoned, leading her along a path of luminous fog, away from the present and towards what could only be understood as the mysteries of minds.

Would she dare follow them? Would she, like Alice, abandon the normal for the bizarre and beautiful? The answer lingered in the air, sweet as the aftertaste of dreams spun from the night's tapestry.