In the interstice between dusk and dawn, the whispers call under celestial auroras. Forgotten relics of when shadows spoke* weave tales woven on threads of starlight.
The flicker of a candle before dawn, a lighthouse in dreams. It remembers the lullabies sung by the winds, by hands that once ignited the stars in hearthways of The Mournful Shore†.
Dewdrops catch moonlight's sigh, a symphony in silver droplets. Silence hums an age-old tune known only to the Cicerone of Ferns‡, etched into the very marrow of time.
Dreams dissolve into waking worlds, the infinite twilights wane. Where fleeting moments—fiery sprites—dance upon ripples of the Underleaves Curfew§††.
Can you catch a second in the palm of your hand, or is its essence but a ghost wandering the perimeter of dawn? Beneath the frost, the Pale Trail Nostrum†† blooms ever so softly.