They say, in whispers born from the edges of galaxies, that the stars carry stories. Stories of light-years past, echoing in spaces vast and unending. Each silent note cloaked in the shadows of night, yet louder than a thousand symphonies.
At the observatory's edge, we listen. With instruments not of brass and wood, but of stone and steel, ancient and yet new. Each signal a promise, or a warning, or perhaps merely a memory of existence itself.
Travel the unseen corridors of time where echoes become whispers and whispers fade into the distant hum of cosmic events.
Our hearts, they are encoded with the same gravity, pulled by unseen hands, echoing through the colored dust of dying stars. Each pulse a reminder, a beckoning from a place beyond our firm grasp.
And if you listen close, you might hear it too—a question unasked, an answer unformed, reverberating through the tapestry of space.