Beneath the ephemeral veil of twilight threads, curtains hang not from rods, but from dreams. In this quiet dominion, where whispers fold upon silence, the fireflies gather — guardians of hidden stories.
Do they know, the minuscule luminaries, why dances are choreographed under such tapestries? Or of the sea of stars that weave themselves into patterns — conspiring constellations that mark sacred corridors?
The light they keep is not mere flame; it is the echo of forgotten lanterns, hung in the passageways between dusk and dawn. Step closer, and you may hear the sigh of their flicker — the symphony of a world veiled under layers of gossamer and old sighs.
Travel on the whispering winds toward the next threshold: