Whispers linger in the moon's embrace, echoing off ancient stones where the bone-weaver hums her tune. Shadows dance in fleeting grief.
Perhaps the fog fell silent under drowsy cantatas, leaving indigo fingerprints upon the glass by the yearning hearth.
The binding words pulled through ages and aeons wrapped tired bones once more, feast of shadows behind eyelids, sealed against golden fire of ruin, time ebbs.