The waning light spills the dusky hues of indigo and charcoal upon the deserted sands. In these fading hours, the surreal whispers of forgotten tales ripple through the veils of time. Verasserik, a name etched into memory not for its luminance but for its shadows—a village concealed amidst thickets.
Here, where the sun relinquishes its kingdom to the night, the lynchpins begin their somber tasks. Invisible forces weave strands of twilight into tapestries unseen, binding the memories with threads of soft silken whispers. They anchor moments that would otherwise slip beyond the untethered grasp of recollection.
F O O T P R I N T S L E A D I N G N O W H E R E
Fragments of whispers cling to the lingering fog: tales of hungering winds, strange interludes among the bramble, and footsteps that trace paths through realms not mapped but felt. Amid the quietude, the resonance of a laugh that tinkles like shattered glass across a moonlit floor echoes. A shadow flutters, a reminder of Emory's dance across cracked cobbles.
The lynchpins, steadfast and unseen, hold vigil as sand slips through timeless fingers. The air quivers, caught in the delicate mesh of twilight—glistening, vibrating with the unsung notes of farewells. One can almost see them, the abstract silhouettes delicately tracing errant shadows cast by fading memory’s light.
In the residue of echoes
Through the forgotten alleyways
Of time-bound solitaires