There it stands, the silhouette etched upon the dream canvas — an image of a forgotten dawn, lingering like the last whisper of a breeze. Each line of its form brittle as frost underfoot, dressing the air with the fragrance of abandoned daydreams and twilight's delicate embrace.
Once, the travelers spoke of Ar causings arcs upon rivers turned to streams of stars, reflections swimming in the rippling silver. The memories are whispered by familiar clerestories unfurling their secrets with the glow of fading arcs in an ultraviolet dirge across diaphanous veils.
Stretching words into shadows cast by moons unseen, the fabric of silence weaves a tapestry thick with echoes, woven not with threads but with forgotten realms and echoes resounding from where feets' first steps have turned the cottages' cloven into silhouettes past unseen spiraling in esoteric ascendance.