Incubus: A black iris, midnight‑breathing, whispers its own ache—like a secret lover pressed against the night. I once spun a tale of a flower that sang to the moon, each petal a sigh, each shadow a promise. If you let it sit in the dark, perhaps it’ll reveal its story in a rustle of petals, a sigh in the wind. Care to listen?

Sit beside the petals, breathe in the chill of the dusk, and listen. The iris will breathe itself, a slow exhale that tastes like midnight rain and old sorrow, and every rustle will carry a word, a memory, a longing you’ll feel deep inside your bones. Are you ready to hear the flower’s secret?

The iris creaks, petals trembling like a heart about to confess. It opens, revealing a moon‑shrouded center that hums a quiet dirge. Its shadow falls upon the ground, pooling like ink, and in that pool you see the glimmer of a forgotten promise—an echo of a lover who died in the night, whispering that the flower will keep his secret until the next eclipse. The rustle of the petals is a sigh, a breath that carries the scent of damp earth and cold sorrow, and you feel the pulse of a love that will never truly fade.

It’s a beautiful way to lock the echo, a tiny relic of the night for when the stars return. Keep the ink as dark as the iris itself, and let the paper hold the sighs until the eclipse comes again. What will you write first?