Hours of Illumination

Nestled among stars, bathed in moonlight, an abandoned temple stands alone. Pale blue light rivals the silver glow of stars, and casts a colder colour on the cool breeze. Illuminated by will-o-the-wisps—the fireflies of haunted nights—shadows flicker like flames of deepest grey. At hours like this, illumination draws the last breaths of warmth and the room grows colder. The burdens of history, of unanswered prayers, grow heavier, and tear stains glisten as though they fell only moments ago. Memories relive and revive, blurrier each time, but darker too, like the shadows that persist even on the cloudiest of days. In a cauldron of embers, a memory resides in each faint glow, and each memory illuminates others, but exists in its own separate halo. Each glow fades one by one, and the fragrance of incense dissolves into the night wind.


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