The charred rock licks up toward the sky like an octopus grasping for the hull of a ship. Each star shines, waving through the gentle night breeze, blowing a crispy cold kiss to the village. The houses coo in the arms of the smoothened mountains like a child in his mother’s arms, listening to her lullaby. Their lights flicker, twinkling to an absence of warmth, as each candle is snuffed. The scent of freshly baked bread simmers away, caught by the wind. Tinkering clinks of the last strike of glowing metal in a dying fire echoes with a resounding purr. The fading heat shrivels next to the embers, tucking into their cobblestone cots. Not even a distant croak can be heard. Even the crickets know that the entire village has gone to sleep; their humming ceased. Silence overtakes the town beneath the starry night sky. A sweet, bitter silence, fragile beneath the blaring gaze of the half-moon. Silence, and sleep.