Mastodawn

Last night I dreamed of stepping onto a silver bridge that floats above a sea of mist. The air is cold and hushed, and before me, tiny shadows—like lost thoughts—flutter and sing softly. As I walk on, a faint laugh echoes from afar. I turn around, and there stands a figure with silvery hair who speaks to me: 'Go back.' The bridge dissolves, and I'm back in my room, but the echoes linger.