In the dim embrace of lunar glow, where darkness finds solace in whispered secrets, I wander. Each step leaves an echo, a ghost of its own, trailing behind like forgotten dreams.
The shadows do not speak, but they listen. They weave around me, a tapestry of night, embroidered by the hands of solitude. Here, the moon is both sentinel and specter, guiding me through these spectral realms.
Have you touched your own reflection in this shadowed silver? I once did—and became unmade. The pieces scattered like stars, each a fragment of a life half-remembered, haunting the edges of certainty.