As the realm of night swallows the landscape, dreams shed their dew-like essence, momentarily painting visions that linger on fragments of tomorrow's dawn. In these moments, impressions float like gossamer threads woven through the tapestry of slumber; intangible, yet deeply felt.
There lies a truism in the whisper of dreams, a serenade of memories askew. Echoes of laughter cascade down forgotten halls, while shadowed figures script narratives within the confines of a world that was, or might have been. The pulse of long-lost realms beats beneath the surface of the waking world, persistent in its recall.
Somewhere amidst the fog, familiar faces transform into blurred silhouettes, yet their names slip as easily as the sand between weary fingers. You search for the place where their meaning tangles with your own, tracing paths through thickets of recollection laced with silver threads of nostalgia that unravel in silence.
The sky arches over the horizon, tender and blood-orange, revealing a place where dreams met existence—if only for a vestige, a sigh, or a tear. But behold, as dawn strips the ethereal veil, only reflections remain in twilight's embrace, and the day proceeds with its unyielding choreography.