When the fabric of reality thins and moonlight slips like silver threads through the darkened night, when time coils like smoke, and the silence hums with old magic, a world woven from myth and marrow begins to form. Like the great tree Yggdrasil, it branches through realms both seen and unseen, connecting what was with what might be.

In this world, the ink becomes a river, and the paper becomes the sky. Here, the bones of forgotten gods echo beneath ink-stained soil, and mountain ranges rise from whispered words. Here, the stories that live between breath and silence unfurl like wings.

I am its keeper, its wanderer, its scribe. I’ve built my home in this twilight space, gathering stories from the roots of ancient trees and the light of distant stars, crafting new legends in the quiet hours when the modern world falls silent.

You’ve wandered far to find this place. Now stay. Night has fallen. The stories are awake. Will you listen?