In a cosmos unformed, beyond the edge of ever-lasting time, lay a constellation; not of stars, but of thoughts. A scattered assembly, woven into the fabric of silence, yet loud in its solitude. Above, the ancient dust of space gathered, settling upon these flickering remnants like a ghost's touch on a forgotten mirror.
Once, they were vibrant, these sequences: poignant dreams of a forgotten architect tracing among the celestial bodies a map for humanity's errant heart. Her hands weaved cosmic arcs and angles, stitching plans into the sky with threads of starlight, only to have them erased by aeons of cosmic weeping.
And now, as twilight falls across the universe, the dust speaks its own language. Cryptic sequences emerge from the haze like ancient runes on a time-eaten tablet. Each symbol a whisper, each whisper a cascade of memories trapped in the web of infinity.
Invisible Paths