Professor had mentioned many times over of a town that laid on a single path, one of which was tailored by it’s ghosts. The classically aged buildings that peppered the single trail ran thin with few residents, who spent the length of the hour tending to crops or humming a tune. The valley the town laid in was perpetually washed in a tastefully gray palette regardless of whatever season it may be, and on the queer day or so, a fog would come to tend to the land.

It would lay restfully there, a seemingly still haze utterly unbothered by the lost breeze. However, on the clear enough of a night, with a full enough moon, the odd pair of eyes could peek out back at you if you stared too long at a funny shadow. Oftentimes when everyone had gone to bed, the eyes would extend to some bubble of a head, and then a neck, followed by a misty torso set with a slender set of limbs. The gardeners, the townsfolk referred to them as, took care of the land that held few. Some of them had left fresh flowers or mosses by the feet of trees that they slumbered past, some had taken to molds and mushrooms, but all of them, oh how ever special they were, had painted the land with the ink of the night sky by the moon’s filtered light. Thin fingerless palms would reach to the sky to pluck a star to mold it into a raven, with feathers black as night. Or scoop a puddle of the black abyss overhead to water the shrubbery.