The Silence Of A Nocturnal Serenade

《07》Each dawn we may bring

○~•°Maeri°•~○

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As morning unfurls across the canopy of trees, velvety rays peek in through the parting of the bedroom window and filter a caressing glow of hopeful dawn over each bend and silhouette in its path. A sliver seen with each break of another day - a reminder always flittering by unnoticed.
The petals of flowers spread on the sill glisten, a calling for eyes never to spare more than a glance.
The peaceful moment cradled the quietude of the cabin like a blanket under that rising sun, emotions hanging amidst a low fog that settles on dull rocks against the shore - and a muffled groan as a blanketed figure of their own stretches across their resting place.

Drooping ears twitch under the hem of covers, craving to hear the morning song of birds or the familiar creaking of settling wood.
I gradually rouse from the grasp of sleep, the heaviness of exhaustion lingering stubbornly despite the night's reprieve. Tangles of soft fur mingle with disheveled tresses of white, whispers of half-formed dreams tip-toeing on my lips as I emit a low groan and shift under the warmth of pulled-up blankets, an arm slinking over the edge of the bed to rest aching muscles.
My sigh was a whisper.
The tinge of morning cool cuddled my cheeks as I rose, shedding the covers that cocooned me like the receding waves along the shoreline. Wisps frame my face, the air a serene stillness that nibbles the exposed skin of my ankles.

My eyes plead to fall closed, drawing down the shutters of a tired mind in search of slumber for just a while longer.
A weary hand drags over my face, tracing my features to memory and a gentle pat was given to my cheek as lashes flutter and vision adjusts.

I yawn without thinking, head shaking like a lazy lion showing of their proud mane.

Pale eyes were the next part of me to drag, this time across the room, looking for lost souls and that angelic glow of hope.
With a sigh I swing my legs over the edge of the bed to plant my feet on the cool wooden floor. The boards creak softly beneath my feeble weight, a comforting reminder of shelter in the cabin.

A tousled mane of snow is smoothed down and ruffled once more, the tangled strands 'tamed' as I try to shake off the remnants of sleep.
My mind churns with the tasks of the day ahead, the routine of chores and responsibilities that await me - a moment taken to straighten the folds of my nightgown before I followed the weak morning light to the open sill.

An idea forms and heavy lids lift with a meekly growing excitement.
Ears perk up, tail wanting to swish.
I stand, smoothing out wrinkled fabric with absent-minded fingers, and I liked to imagine the serene scent of morning dew floating in the air, mixing with the tranquility of crackling wood, and the tendrils of light filtering through the window.

It was Magence Day.

My lip is bitten, heart beating in tandem to the glances spared - first to the painted webs of intricate runes and depictions of the somnura, then to the trove of treasured books, the short, waxy candles, the messy desk, and the well-worn trunk.
My attention was brought to the worn, smoothed down oak cabinet lined with a few dangling paper stars, padded steps soft in eager preparation.

I quickly open the doors and pull out a change of clothes from the confines of my lackluster armoire, the soft materials falling like stilled water across my arm.

Items are gathered and tossed upon the foot of the bed as I step closer to the resting place, my nightgown loosened and slipped off over my head, discarded without a second thought.
I stand in my simple, short drawers and white chemise, the morning chill brushing against my skin as I lean down to slip on a pair of stockings, guiding the right one carefully under the metal cuff before tying them both securely over my knees. Stays are then wrapped around my waist, the lightly-boned garment tightened and adjusted until it fit snug on my lithe frame - each lace drawn and gathered in the back with practiced precision.