Wrapped in the blanket's embrace, he began to drift. Every fiber, an echo of mysteries unsolved. Bergerac's ultimate fate lingered as flecks against a canvas of indigo twilight. The moon hung like escapism's tether.
It was never the lantern's glow he sought. But rather, the stories whispered by those intricately woven strands. Soft murmurs letting him slip beyond that horizon where silence reverberated harmony.
And here, whispered roads turned into trails. The wool beckoned still, meeting reality at tangential points unseen. Where do dreams begin, if not at the edge of scandalous day-breaks? Those shades beyond the truth's sighs.
Perhaps one day he would unravel the wool in its infinite tapestry, stitch by peculiar stitch.