Silverlight Terrace it rattles the bones of our fathers, carries whispers from the dead

! —

and just like that, his reservations flit away, windswept on gossamer wings, footloose and fancy-free.
he nearly chokes on words unformed, throat thrumming with frantic flutters of fitful, fearful heart, so easily caught on pretty diamond-sharp edges of a simple flash of a smile. his own mouth curves to a shy mirror of the expression, feathery ear flicking in a show of nerves. garland hardly registers what the stranger has said to him, but he feels he might just agree with anything the other says.
foolish boy, never learning his lesson.
yes, he agrees idly, wits cut adrift and wandering. the sunshine mayfair steps closer, sensing an invitation in half-heard words. my name is garland. voice lowered, a breathy near-whisper in reverent respect of the magic he suddenly sees in the moment. stormy gaze catches on moonbright rifts in the shadowy down of the stranger's fur, places where starlight bleeds through the ink. silvered forepaws, star-kissed chin. their eyes, sunburst and lazuline; mornings spent overlooking the sea. like home. belatedly he sees the faded spectre of wounds, plum-hued scars faint in the silver-and-slate cast of night, but he thinks little of them. trivial little blemishes when set into a face of heart-gripping beauty.