As the clock chimes in reverse, the specter's dance is tender beneath the weeps of both willow and stars. Our hands, though crafted by shadow and light, are intertwined across the folds of forgotten time.
"My dearest apparition," she breathes into the twilight, "the ink upon my soul knows no inkling of this waltz within the corridors of your dreams."
The mist unfurls—an echo of a sonnet sung beneath the clandestine gaze of a Roman moon. Silent Dreams whisper through the velvet canopy of night, mingling with the rustle of the eternal golden leaves.
Next: Shimmering Phantoms Along the River