Once, in a land just beyond the whispered edges of dreams, children gathered under a starlit sky. Their voices, small echoes against the vast night, spoke of wonders that woefully awaited their hearts. But shadows listened—always listened—hoping to pluck desires fled too close to the sun.
They sat, those children, upon mossy throne of forgotten kings, recounting tales spun with threads of midnight silk. Each story breathed an unseen specter, colors of words dancing 'round their heads like old-friend ghosts.
Remember when we dreamed of silver seas, spoke the little one with crown of daisies? A nod, a shimmer of unease among them, as pale flames flickered upon a hollowed stump, casting a glow of things unseen.
And who shall guard the door where daylight whispers, joked another, her voice a sing-song chimera. It was then that the whispering shadows shivered with delight because the door, oh, the door was never locked.
Enter the Dream Doorway Murmur of the Old Song