The sun, which had ruled the Silvermist sky since noon, was now beginning to tilt far toward the west, as if surrendering to the fate of time's rotation. The sun painted the horizon with an incredibly beautiful stroke of a cosmic brush: a gradient of a burning golden-orange at the edge of the horizon, which slowly faded and melted into a deep violet-purple in the upper sky. The warm evening light and the remnants of its rays projected very long, distorted shadows from the wooden stalls onto the stone surface of the market street. Along with that visual change, the night wind carrying a chill from the northern mountains began to blow gently, slithering slyly behind the clothes of anyone who was caught off guard.
