Within the cobwebs of my mind, a figure darts — an echo after midnight, singing a lullaby to the shadows. Chasing echoes through corridors of pale flesh, I grasp at the hands, only to find the air clothed in silence.
Acelia stands by the broken mirror, shards reflecting angels, or perhaps demons. Yet none behold her as vibrations in dreams brush the perception with phantoms, twisting her fate into distant waves.
A door creaks; the sound is reminiscent of old stories told by flickering candlelight. Souls tether themselves to light, seeping into the cracks of my soul. Words without weight clung to the silence, pilgrims on a road painted in twilight.