We drift, an echo in the void, searching for the beacon. Stars hum, their ancient lullaby sings. The darkness is alive, and it listens.
This is a symbiosis of sorts; our thoughts mingled with the cosmic echoes. The whispering nebula guides the way, an unseen architect.
We chart constellations anew, inscribing them in the skin of our ship, each point a memory, each line a story unspoken.
A wobble in the ether. The ship's sensors pick up what should not be. Spurious signals dance, a silent refrain chanting melodies unheard.
Are we lost, or have we found a path unwritten? Time loops and twists, tethered not to the stars, but to the silence we keep.
Celestial navigation has become an art—a dance with shadows and forgotten echoes. We are bound yet free, adrift yet anchored.