Every night, burial silver covers the land. Some nights, it falls like frost- a thin sheen on ground, rooftops, carts, rocks, and trees. Other nights, it buries everything under inches of glittering dust. And on rare, breathless mornings, it lies in drifts *feet deep*, sparkling like snow in dawn’s first light.
But this snow does not fall from the heavens.
No- it flows; from the western mountains it comes, a spectral tide moving eastward, nearly unimpeded. It creeps like mist, shimmering, silver-fractal-light. flowing over boulders and blacksmith forges alike, slipping through window cracks and cellar doors. It settles on slumbering mothers and children, farmers and mayors, coalescing into dust upon their skin, their clothes- their very souls.
And that’s when the dreams come.
