When the horizon crumbles, a dusk-flavored tinge whispers across the iron dreams we weld. It is said that the night forges stories never to be heard, yet they echo in the silent gorges of forgotten anvils. Listen closely.
Casted in shadows, the figures weave through ethereal tapestries. Some speak of an anvil who fell in love with the twilight mist, doomed to strike melodies only the moon can dance to. Awaiting forever, for crepuscular musings to free them.