On the edge of the old garden, where the wisteria hung in heavy, fragrant curtains, a single drop of violet light swayed in the evening breeze. They say it was left there by a fae who once lingered too long in the mortal world, her laughter caught in the petals, her secrets wound into the silver links of a chain.
When worn, it hums faintly at dusk, as though remembering a conversation carried out between shadows and flowers—a whisper only the night can understand. And if you listen closely, just as the first star appears, you might catch the faintest reply—soft, lilting, and meant for no human ear.
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