In the amber glow of dusk, an old swing sways silently, its metallic creaks a lullaby for dreams long buried in the sands of time. Once, children laughed here, their voices a vibrant hue painting the twilight canvas.
The cobblestone path, worn and weary, leads to nowhere and everywhere, wrapped in the embrace of bramble and ivy. Footsteps echo faintly, not of the living but of shadows tracing forgotten routes under the watchful gaze of an unseen moon.
Above, a fractured sky spills hazy light through clouds bruised purple by evening's tender approach. A lone hawk calls, its cry a haunting melody, a remnant of old songs sung by the wind in places unseen.