"In dreams, the raven whispers secrets that only the dusk can understand. Tread softly," the ancient door creaked as if it heard the gentle thoughts that drifted through.
Amidst the ruins of twilight gardens lay broken tunes, played by shadows on instruments of mist and moonlight.
A path untraveled harbors the steps of invisible memoirs. "Where you go, they shall follow," murmured the morning fog to the lonely, waiting trees.
"Tonight," says the frost, "The stars have forgotten their songs, leaving us but memories written in the frost patterns on your windowpane."