A dark, misty forest at night under a large full moon, with cloaked figures gathered among bare trees, gravestones, and flickering candles on the ground.

In the heart of a forgotten forest, the trees stand tall and bare, their limbs clawing at a sky veiled in thick fog. A giant, pale moon looms above—close, almost unnatural—its cold glow piercing the mist and bathing the clearing in silver and shadow. Beneath its watchful light, a quiet gathering unfolds. Figures cloaked in long, tattered garments drift through the fog or sit motionless on ancient roots and crumbling stones. Their faces are softened by mist—some hidden beneath hoods, others turned upward to the moon with hollow eyes, as though seeking answers in its silence. Candles flicker in glass jars set on the forest floor, their flames dim and unsteady, barely holding against the damp air. Around them lie offerings: dried roses, broken rings, weathered letters stained with grief. A soft wind stirs the trees, making them groan like distant voices, like memories that never fully fade. No joy disturbs this place. It is not bleak, but reverent—a sacred space where sorrow is not buried, but honored. Here, under the haunting gaze of the moon and the embrace of fog, the lovers of sadness find one another in silence, their pain shared like a quiet prayer in the dark. See more