Murmurs of Fading Lights

It begins with the whispers. Tentative, like the rustle of moth wings against the edge of a night curtain. Out there, the streetlights flicker like distant stars, but here, in the sanctuary of fading lights, they speak in soft murmurs.

The room breathes. Walls contract and expand to the rhythm of the unseen pulse. Shadows stretch, then curl back like shy cats in the glow of a dim TV. I walk through the murmurs, stepping lightly on the threads of light spun across the floor.

"Have you heard them?"

Questions without sound, answered by the silent flicker of bulbs overhead. I reach for the light, not to grasp but to understand its gentle language. It flickers with stories untold, tales of journeys shared between bulbs and the night sky.

A book lies open on the desk, pages whispering secrets. The words seem to tremble, eager to leap off the paper and dance in the light. I read them not with my eyes but with the echo of their voice in my mind.

Candle Flame Dream Sequence