The Whisper of the Moonlit Ghost
Beneath a sky woven from silk shadows and silver beams, she appeared again—by the window where the moonlight touched everything it loved. Her name had long been forgotten by the living, but the house still remembered her. Every creak of its wooden bones whispered the syllables of a woman once called Elara. For centuries, she had drifted between this world and the next, a gentle silhouette of smoke and sorrow. Her presence shimmered faintly, like mist clinging to moonlight. Some nights, she was barely visible—a sigh caught in a beam of light. Other nights, when the veil between worlds thinned, her form sharpened, her eyes glowing with the memory of what she once was. The window was her anchor. Beyond it stretched the endless forest, silvered by the full moon. It was there she had waited—night after night—for the one who had promised to return. His name was Aric, a poet and dreamer who swore the stars themselves bent closer when she smiled. But the war had taken him, and though time had ...