Beyond the crested hills of Emberwood, where the sky weeps tears painted in gold, lies the secret of mirroring itself within the raindrops. Here, symphonies composed in silence awaken the echoes of color, silently, tenderly binding the intangible with spectral threads of unseen light.
The falling whispers cascade, unseen yet felt, among the sylvan shadows, each petal shattering into myriad hues, a tapestry woven by unknown hands. Beneath the weight of skybound labyrinths, the earth hums a sonnet, mellifluous and profound, unsung by the lips but cherished by the hearts enshrined in thistledawn glories.