The moon casts its silent silver, illuminating trajectories of thoughts not meant to be spoken.
"Have you seen the shadows cast upon the wall?" he asked, voice trembling.
"No," she whispered, "but I've heard their whispers around corners."
"Will the clock strike midnight before they find us?" a third voice interjected, lost in echo.
"Beneath the forgotten oak," began the old man, "the earth sighs with every footfall."
"The roots remember stories untold," a child replied, gazing into the ether.
"Careful now," warned the wind, condescending in its howls.
"Have you tasted the salt of yesterday's memories?" she murmured, looking beyond.
"Such are the flavors of dreams that decay," he answered, with sorrowful eyes.
"And what of the nightingales, do they sing no more?" whispered the ghost of silence.
Will you step further into the mist?