She glided through the murmuring shadows, a ghost of crimson and subtle whispers. Her footsteps only the echoes could trace, tracing the outlines of forgotten promises made beneath the crescent moonlit hue.
Between the veins of stone and the curling whispers of ivy, their hands would touch—no more than a breath between soul and shadow, manifesting hymns of forgotten summers and shy, stolen glances.
The night air, tender and longing, carried the musk of blooming echoes; roses of last perfumed December lingered past their winter demise, untouched by frost, warmed by only reveries and incandescent remembrances.
A fragmented smile arose, reflective in lanthorn light, pausing with the quietude of mere shadows—phantom footsteps trailing along, weaving in between breaths of solitude and fervent whispers of angles unseen.
Would they speak, the faint sighs echoed beneath velvet drapes of evening? Could they unravel the silken threads of dream cadences untouched, bound by time's delicate lament?