On the branches dyed by twilight, hang the most precious fruits. They quietly mature in the sediment of time, having endured the scorching sun and the baptism of wind and rain, growing in the long nights unnoticed. The process of picking them is filled with thorns, requiring one to traverse darkness and overcome obstacles, but when the fingertips touch the plump fruit, one can taste a richness and sweetness far beyond that of the morning fruits. This is a gift cultivated from countless days and nights of perseverance and sweat, a medal for dreamers after a long wait, belonging only to those who never give up and achieve victory after the clouds part.