In the cool embrace of dusk, where the sky bleeds its final light, there linger the echoes of songs unsung.
Wolves howl, not out of hunger, but of the symphony unheard by mortal ears.
Behind the veil of fog, whispered secrets ride the winds. They speak of lovers lost to time's cruel grasp, of pacts made under the indelible blue glow of the moonlit dome.
"Hold thee close," one whisper implores, "the shadows long to dance, and the night wishes to weep."
A path winds through the underbrush, marred by memories as old as the bones buried beneath the earth.
Seek the hollow of forgotten trees, hear the rain of autumn tapping out a rhythm unknown to man.
The stars above, uncaring, continue to twinkle their cold light, witnesses to the unfolding saga of the bleak and beautiful night.
"The lark sings no more," another voice laments, " and the crescent moon sways to a tune grim and fair."