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She's watching by the window as the landscape unfolds. In the train carriage there is very little orange light, from a very small and frail candle on the table between me and her, that makes it seem like the shadows are distorted overall. Some shadows are sitting in other benches a bit far from her and in the dark but their faces are enshrouded in darkness. Outside there are formless fields or meadows under an absent moon, with threatening trees washed by the heavy rain. Ultradetailed raindrops on the glass window in front of her. In the shadows she's radiant in a soft way. The skin of her bare shoulders and of her beautiful ethereal face creates very subtle sparks of light. And her eyes, her eyes are foggy but also bright rainbow bubles where worlds and stars and universes are being born. But shh, it's a secret. by eryn. Her clothes with intricate lacy patterns are from the nineteenth century and she has very artistfully braided dark hairs intertwined with many blueish dark feathers and adorned with black jewelry and very refined silver circlets. Many tendrils on the side of her face. She could be anyone, but she most probably is not. In her hair a delicate silver pin evokes infinity.
Dreams are like (frail) candles in the dark.
What dream could she be possibly holding on to, in such a grim setting?