When the sun dips below the horizon, the valley hums a low vibrato that intertwines with the last rays of light. Somewhere within this ephemeral dusk, a trumpet sings — its notes seep into the crevices of the land, summoning whispers long forgotten. They speak of unspooled yarns, tales wrapped around the very bones of the earth.
Silas first heard the twilight call during a moonless night, adrift in raindamp solitude beneath a crooked oak. The trumpet, ghostly and golden, wound its way through the fog, and with it came images: scattered vignettes from worlds half-formed.
"Why does it play?" he wondered aloud — the question more artifice than inquiry. Its music beckoned him closer, forcing him to assemble the fragments they left behind. Each tone split the ether, granting a mosaic of voices yet offering no clarity.
He returned nightly, encouraged by the pull of its resonance, a frisson through veins. Silas found comfort there assembling shadows, piecing together unheard stories from the twilight tapestry. And yet, the crescendos grew proud and impatient, like guardians of riddles left unsolved.