When the lanterns flicker, the whispers commence. They coalesce in the dark, persistent like ivy upon stone. Echoes of laughter, refracted through a prism of shadows, woven into the fabric of the midnight tapestry.
"Careful," she intoned, "the tide beneath is not made of salt, nor moonlight, but of faded memories yearning for the surface."
Listen to the ocean of the mind, where dreams linger like phantoms. Crystalline shards of thought embed themselves deep within, a hidden stream that flows only when the heart dares to listen. Whispered Chronicles