The Wonderlings

Once upon a luminous dusk in Albion's forgotten borough, the cobblestones whispered of long-lost dreams. Little hands, not yet engraved by time's slow stone, tread these streets: The Wonderlings, children of echo and whim.

Their eyes reflected not the world in front, but specters of each, yearning to be seen. An apparition of a knight's scepter, or a lady's whisp, danced like shadow on the ground beside them. Though echoing hearths long thawed, remnants of songs still enshrined.

They were, these Wonderlings, seekers of the forgotten and forgottenly sought. Through winding alleyways draped in opalescent fog, they ventured towards unseen melodies that hummed steadily like a pendulum's swing.

The first of them, a girl adorned with a circlet of twinkling bramble, named Elda, raised her gaze to a stained-imaginarium. Her fellow Wonderlings paused, caught in the rapture of reflection, crystalline and innate with the resonance of a phoenix song.

"To grasp estuary fills of yesterday," whispered Cyren, a boy of untamed curls and cornered wisdom, "we wander, not lost but re-found." Their whispered words shimmered upon the cobblestones like tales from spun silk.

Beyond the edges of the known, delucidated by a myriad of eternal stars, lay portals unseen by most, that pulsed with the rhythms of the unraveled cosmos. Would they dare peer within and unweave the dawn?