In the quiet village of Eldergrove, where tales clung like dew on spider silk, there was a path lined with sunbeam daisies.
They flickered in the sunlight, their golden hues glimmering, hinting at secrets spoken only amongst those known to the winds.
Once, an elderly storyteller sat upon a wooden bench at the edge of the daisies, his voice threading through the air like a gentle melody. People often drifted here, drawn as though by the unseen hands of destiny, to rest and to listen.
"Remember well," he would begin, eyes twinkling brighter than the stars, "these blossoms once held the sun in their grips, pleading for warmth as they danced under nightfall. Listen closely, for they will echo the forgotten memories of a world where shades and sunbeams converse."
Children would gather, their imaginations lapping up the tales like thirsty plants. Stories of sunbeam chases in the silk strands of dawn or midday races with the wind. Each yarn spun a tapestry rich with hues of nostalgia far beyond the present.
As seasons melted into one another, the daisies remained, steadfast and golden, an anchor to the whispers of time. Elders would sometimes speak of a peculiar night when the moon was full and the daisies sang to the sunbeam's lullaby, a night that blanketed everything in a tiered warmth known only to the ancients.
But those nights lingered as echoes, softer than a lover's sigh, leaving behind the lingering promise of other tomorrows.
Echoes of the Dusk Murmurs of the Wind Another Dance