In the golden gleam of an evening not quite set folding, the realm teased a whisper. “Thumbelina,” cooed the shadows, casting her silhouette against a burnished sky. But unlike any truth, her dance was a mirage, poised on the cusp of became and never was.
The lilies sang, in dulcet tones smeared with a tinge of autumnal blues, crooning ancient verses lost to this very hour’s hinterland. “Beware the wisp, Twin of a hue, in braids of steel, and dreams that sue,” murmured one insistent echo, a veritable melody of spectral notes.
Amidst brocade of misinterpreted lace, phantoms flitted in peripheries subdued — gauzy haunts of yore that reached airily towards Thumbelina, begging not touch, mere communion, an inch astray in moonlit glade of marbled glass.
In the quiver of their ageless refrain, did she dare touch the phantom’s mirror, or only heed the break of mirage echo?
On this juncture hovered the choices — wisps of unsung spells as stern as light, and too tender to see. For reality thinned among these whispers, a mesh woven tight yet sung of loose strings.
Venture deeper into phantasmagorical palaces... The alchemy of forgotten realms and existing mirages...