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Nestled high above a drowsy woodland, crescent-moon-shaped cottages glow softly like lanterns in the dusk, their bark-textured walls radiating a gentle warmth. Inside one, a solitary poet sits by candlelight, fingers stained with ink, crafting lullabies for owls who perch nearby, listening with tilted heads. The air hums with a cheerful stillness, as if the forest itself is holding its breath. Delicate lines trace the scene like a tapestry—balanced, botanical, and dreamlike—while the twilight sky swirls with color, naturally softened as if touched by Dee Nickerson’s brush. It’s a cinematic moment suspended in time, where every detail, from the glowing interiors to the leafy borders, feels like a lullaby for the soul.