Silver-tipped wings flutter silently through the air. Slowly, carefully, a solitary butterfly lands on the cold, hard ground. Its body is a dull, faded gray with hints of white- almost as if it has forgotten what color it was supposed to be. Only the very tips of its wings, the remnants of its hope, its dreams, its faith, reveals the shine that it had once shown.
The sounds of other beings cut through the otherwise-piercing silence all around it. Carefully, the butterfly lifts its head, searching for the source of the noise; searching for the light. It spreads its wings once more, the dying flame of hope now reignited.
At last it sees the silhouettes of friends ahead, chatting casually as ever. It feels at ease now, with others around it, their gentle whispers caressing the butterfly's wings, healing it, encouraging it, loving it. Yet, reaching out, there is nothing. The butterfly is confused, this must be a mistake! It thinks to itself. They were just there talking to me. They must have gone on ahead. It believes as it flutters, now frantically forwards, searching for the warmth, the comfort, the friendship.
However, as far as it flies, nothing changes. Everything looks exactly the same, cold and gray. And it gradually dawns on the creature that the noise was a mere illusion created by the mist. The elusive dream that will never be caught...
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