Above the sound of midnight tides, there was a conversation, glimmering with echoes of other days.
"Do you remember the festival the night the moon touched the sea?" she asked,
voice weaving between stars like a forgotten melody.
"I remember, yes," replied a voice aged, yet forever youthful,
"The way candles flickered through the rain, forming bridges of light awakens a memory so pure..."
Outside the narrative frame, there lay a sense of place not yet imagined,
where reverence is found in whispers or the silence that follows a prayer echoing through abandoned chapels.
Apocryphal tales spoken in history's embrace while fragments of song danced like autumn leaves.
"Is it here that history dreams?" inquired the soft nocturnal voice,
to which another voice, stone and river in its timbre, suggested gently,
"Perhaps history is the dreamer, dreaming with marvels in seeing you."