In the hush of early evening, when the world dons its breathless silence, I pen the songs uttered by the night. These aren't songs woven of sunshine and joy, but rather melodies spun of something more delicate—stories sung by shadows under a pale moonlight.
Do you remember that darkened attic we used to hide in? I hear the rafters groan just like before, a mechanical sigh shared with the distant call of owls. When we pressed our ears to the wood, we found the secrets of the wind—an echo of something both familiar and unknown.
There, in the trespass of sleep, the walls whispered haunted lullabies, and our old dreams became faded scrolls kept alive by the trembling flames. Do the ghosts remember the little things—the way light danced off old photographs, or how laughter once echoed down the deserted hallways?
Each word is an echo of what we hoped to understand, an invitation to piece together the fragments of stories left unspoken—the tiny moons spinning alone in shadowy orbits around our scattered memories.
As the ink wells up under the trembling light of the unfinished dusk, let the soft breathing of the night embrace these stories; they are meant for those willing to listen to the lilting sighs of dreams reminding them: not all songs are meant to lull to sleep; some are made to awaken something sleeping quietly within.