The mist envelops silently, a shroud of whispers 'round the rooted memories of fading specters.
Once, above the perishing forest, dreams flitted like moths to moonlit lamp, now reduced to mere echoes...
Who writes the eternal stories on the mist? Who reads the words written with shadows?
A path obscured, visions blurred, crossing over...This Way
Above all, the prayer remains unanswered... Sliding us to oblivion's soft grasp.
Do we return, or is this where wandering souls find solace? The Twilight