Under the vaulted darkness, the ground whispers secrets to the stars. They murmur back in a language lost to ages past, where every syllable glows like the flickering fireflies of the sea.
A hollow tree stands sentinel, its gnarled arms reaching for constellations unseen. Beneath its bark, stories of forgotten voyagers sleep, entwined with dreams spun from strands of moonlight.
The air here is thick with echoes, each step forward sending ripples through the fabric of the night. The bioluminescent tide ebbs, flows, and in its wake, it leaves trails of light—ghostly imprints of the world reborn.
A breeze stirs, weaving through the silvered grass, caressing the edges of eternity. Listen carefully, and you might hear the ancients sing, their voices a chorus of radiant silence.
The Symphony of Twilight