"Stars," she murmured, her voice weaving through the night, "They remind me of silver sequins stitched into the fabric of the cosmos."
"Ah, but the moon choruses in crescendos of tear-soaked lament," replied the miller, smoothing flour-specked hands over his apron.
"Could you not hear their lullabies over the cobbled streets as we wandered last eve?" queried the shadow, almost lost in twilight.
The aged man with the hat tipped ever so slightly spoke: "Dreams are the petals unfurling within the gardens of our minds, fragrant with the musk of forgotten stories."
"And yet gardens thrive beneath the waves, where sunlit sands hold secrets older than the sigh of autumn leaves," observed the tide with salt-kissed wisdom.
Gently tucked words beneath the pillow: "Each night we unravel, as though plucking gossamer from dragonfly wings," whispered without trace.