The wind howls a lonely song, punctuated by the rustling of dry leaves, each sound a reminder of the fading year, of endings and shadows that cling to the edges of the night.

THE CRESCENT MOON, A SILVER OF HOPE PERHAPS, BUT ONE EASILY SWALLOWED BY THE──ENCROACHING DARK.

(It is a night for secrets, for whispers carried on the wind, and for the cold embrace of the encroaching shadows) .