Heard it on the wind, a whispering from beyond the veil.

[Echoes of Cygnus, perhaps?]

Here's the trick: Listen without listening, the sound folding upon itself like an origami crane made of night.

Hands not there, yet feeling the tremor of distant stars, the caress of their light as it dances across unseen shores.

The phantom touch etches stories into the air.

Was it yesterday, or maybe tomorrow? Time bleeds in unsuspected hues.