The air here has a knack for shimmer, bending light until it can barely be contained in prism. No one speaks about it, but everyone feels the gentle tug towards the spiral path that leads up, always up, into the obscure horizons of Steigenhalzmann.
Reality here bends; it's as if everyone is walking a line between the undeniable truths of everyday tasks and the alluring whispers of impossible dreams. There's Norm in the market square, hawking carrots that are said to grow sweeter beneath the Steigenhalzmann mist.
"Just ten knuts for a bunch," he claims, his stories spilling like hidden tapes from a forgotten radio. "They say if you dream of the sea, you'll find it in the garden in the morning."
But who could say? The sea and the whispering wind seem woven into every breeze. Maybe it's just prophecies spoken over tea in the local cafe, or maybe it's the place itself, offering secrets to those willing to listen.
Realism Shimmers | Hidden Dreams