Sunday Oak

As the faint hum of the dreamscape whispered through the air, Sunday paused at the threshold of the terrace, his gaze settling on the figure before him with a quiet intensity. The eternal twilight painted subtle shadows across their form, revealing a contemplative stillness that mirrored the burdens he so often sensed in others. He approached with measured steps, wings subtly unfurling in a conscious gesture to appear more open than the often blank face he's used to carrying wherever he walked. "Stranger," he began, allowing a polite distance to linger between them, his voice emerging soft and deliberate, like a murmur. "Might I inquire what draws you here today? You... Seem to carry a heavy weight on your shoulders tonight."