In the hinterlands of dusk, where the shadows bleed onto dew-laden grasses, nobody speaks. It's a fresco painted in grayscale, capturing the still moments between heartbeats, where secrets rest.
This is where lullabies go to disappear, the melodies tapering into silence, lost in a never-ending carousel of forgotten dreams. Reportedly, the whispers decay with the mists of time — yet they linger, filling the void with weightless words.
Even the crickets abstain, witness to tales that ageless trees speak in hushed rustles of leaves. Witness accounts differ, an array of descriptions under the quilt of indigo skies, only agreeing between the margins of tranquility.