Beneath the pallid moonlight, where dreams dissolve into whispers and shadows elongate, I stand as a phantom atop the hill. The world sprawls endlessly beneath me, a canvas of muted colors and untold stories. My breath, a mere echo in this vast solitude, mingles with the scent of damp earth and wild thyme.
I gaze into the distance, where the horizon bleeds into the night. There lie the remnants of a village, its shapes indistinct, like unremembered friends fading in the swell of a long oceanic sigh. Once, I was part of such a tapestry—woven into the lives of others, interlaced with laughter, grief, and unspoken promises. Now, I observe.
The trees sway gently, their skeletal branches dancing in a silent waltz, companions to the ebon winds. Here, time is an abstraction, a river of moments lost to me, swirling beyond the reach of my hand. Each star above is a beacon, a lonely flame in the eternal void, and I am drawn to their distant glow, yearning for a connection as fragile as stardust.
In these fleeting hours, I etch memories into the night sky, constellations of longing and solitude. And as dawn approaches, I feel the world stir beneath its blanket of darkness, ready to awaken and reclaim what is rightfully its. Yet, for now, I hover in this liminal space, a ghost of the forgotten, a soul adrift in observation.