In the dim corridors of one’s own mind, where whispers of the forgotten rustle like leaves in a blustery autumn, there are glass lanterns. They flicker with an odd, phosphorescent glow, shedding light upon scenes cloaked in mist. These lanterns are as delicate as spun sugar, holding within them the glimmer of times less traveled, paths lost amid the fog of yesteryear.
The first lantern flickers a cerulean hue, illuminating the visage of a child at play, chasing iridescent shadows cast by the dwindling sun. Her laughter, distant yet clear as a mountain brook, dances upon the air, echoing through the hollow spaces of passing time.
Another cast in emerald light reveals a solitary figure, pen in hand, etching symbols into the brittle pages of an ancient tome. The pages whisper secrets of the universe, yet the figure’s script remains a cipher, an enigma suspended between understanding and obscurity.
And lastly, there is one glowing a deep, unsettling crimson. It reveals a fleeting encounter beneath a canopy of stars, voices entwined like ivy around ponderous oaks, echoes of promises that were never destined to bloom in daylight’s rational embrace.
Venture further, if you dare, into the ephemeral realms illuminated by these fragile beacons: The Mistral Flourish or Vermilion Dawn.