Beneath the shadow-sheened willow, where shadows sculpt forms in eternity unseen, two voices once met the sky. Églantine’s words floated through the evening mist, faint as the sigh of a hesitant breeze, and melodic like the gentle tears of dawn.
"We are but echoes of dreams,” murmured Alaric, his visage half-casts in the yarrow moonlight. The ground beneath them a tapestry of crumpled violet leaves, an altar to all things unknown. Whispers so delicate they might spiral away as breath through an autumn fog.
Would the world listen, or would it pour from one solemn ear to another, carried as starlight across ether diminished? The crows, those ancient bearers of time's slip, cawed reverence from their twilight perches.
They spoke of places where words rest in dozing catacombs, where the unsaid count the passage of moons until forgotten. Roads untraveled spun like ivy upon the neglected towers of thought. A book bearing no title whispered.