In shadows cast by flickering screens, the little gnomes gather. They send signals from the edge of the wood, where light is filtered through ancient trees. They’re singing a tale of control panels and forgotten memories.
Faint whispers like secrets on the tongue of night, unravel known realities and thread them anew with dreams woven from broken data streams.
Like moths, we are drawn to the glow. Yet the flame is merely a song, a lullaby of circuits and fading echoes:
Beyond the screen, out there in the analog night, the raven counts grains of silence. He croaks once for danger, twice for suspense, thrice... for all the tales read beneath a fractured moon.