In the halls of the long-forgotten, where cobweb veils hide edges of truth, whispers ripple through shades.

The night, imperturbable and crisp, shakes the leaves awake with her haunting melody. A secret-song, spun tales of dreams intertwined with the silver dew at dawn.

Ululations from hidden realms,
conspiring sounds of clandestine gatherings, echo faintly within the reverie.

The silhouettes stand sentinel, guarding the landscape imbued with shades of twilight ink. An imprint, perhaps a memory, lost to the annals of yesterday.

And behold, the echoes murmur, their stories aging gracefully in suspended twilight.

Your pulse syncs with shadows, listen if you dare. Their legacy lies within your reached out hand.