The sky softens into a watercolor of lavender and periperinkle, the sun a fading ember behind distant buildings. The meadow, now in shadow, glows with a quiet, ethereal light—moonbeams spill through thin clouds, silvering the grass. Fireflies flicker to life, tiny sparks that dance above the clover, turning the dark into a living tapestry. A stream gurgles nearby, its surface black as ink, reflecting the sky’s purple haze. Wild roses climb a weathered fence, their petals deep crimson, edges soft as velvet. The air cools, carrying the scent of damp earth and jasmine. No footprints, no sound—only the meadow, wrapped in twilight’s gentle embrace, waiting for the night to claim it.