The Song of Lorian.

 In the village of Alstoria, there was a saying that had been passed down for generations: "Nights that ask for return and deconstruction yield the most vivid dreams." No one quite knew the origins of this phrase, but they all felt its haunting echo every 

evening as the sun set.

Lorian, a young woman with raven-black hair and a delicate face, was a keeper of old tales and memories. She lived on the outskirts, in a humble cottage overlooking the vast sea. From her vantage point, she watched the long waves rise and fall, each one carrying secrets from distant lands.

Lorian was a healer, using herbs and swallows to mend the wounds of those who sought her. The herbs she plucked at dawn, when they were most potent, and the swallows? They were her trusted messengers, carrying words of hope and love to those who were in despair.

One evening, as the amber light faded, an old man named Jaren arrived at her doorstep. His face was etched with enclosing wounds that were more than just skin deep - the kind of scars that spoke of a lifetime of pain and regret.

"I've heard," he began, voice trembling, "that you can heal wounds that others cannot see."

Lorian nodded, guiding him inside. "Tell me your story."

Jaren spoke of his youth, a time when he was a sailor navigating the uncharted waters. He had loved and lost, battled fierce storms, and watched as his friends were claimed by the sea. Nostalgia, like a thick fog, had settled in his heart, refusing to lift.

But it was one memory that weighed on him the most. During a storm, he had made a fateful decision, one that cost the lives of many. That night, as the tempest roared, the sea whispered to him, “Nights that ask for return and deconstruction.”

Lorian listened, her heart heavy with empathy. When Jaren finished, she fetched a vial containing a brew made of rare herbs. She also penned a letter, tying it to the leg of her swiftest swallow.

"Drink this," she instructed Jaren, "and let the long waves of the sea cleanse your soul."

As the swallow took flight, Jaren drank the potion. A deep sleep claimed him, and in that slumber, he found himself facing the very storm from his past. But this time, he wasn’t alone. The souls he had lost were beside him, forgiving him, showing him the way.

When dawn broke, Jaren awoke with tears in his eyes. The enclosing wounds had begun to heal. He felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted.

"Thank you," he whispered, holding Lorian's hand.

Lorian smiled gently. "Sometimes, all we need is to confront our past, to deconstruct it and understand. Only then can we truly move forward."

Jaren left Alstoria that day, but the tale of his healing spread throughout the land. And as the years passed, many more came to Lorian, seeking solace and healing.

The village’s old saying took on a new meaning. For in Alstoria, it was believed that those nights, which asked for a return to our deepest sorrows, were also the nights that promised a new dawn. And in that dawn, one could always find hope.