In the haze before dawn, before the cacophony of color spills across the sleeping horizon, it dances—an ephemeral glimmer of fragmented truths. A passage dreams of arising. The cat slices shadows. The eastern light knows secrets that even the sun refuses to see.
The tiles crack beneath bare feet, whispering tales of forgotten deities worshipped in corners obscured by the mist. Somewhere, a bell tolls—once, twice. Frosted glimmer on the rooftops refracts, confusing sight with sound. In an alley, bricks bloom in golden brightness.
A face—no, a mask—grins beyond the murmur, caught in a haze that bends perception like flint bending under ancient fire. It is not a visage you know, yet its eyes pull at the hem of your sanity. Slowly, the eastern light envelops you, a cocoon of vibrant disarray.