The last whispers of the dying star unfurled like delicate sand across the dunes, a saga cloaked in starlight and shadow.
In the heart of blazing silence, it murmured:
“I have spun galaxies, cradled them in waxen arms, and whispered tales of splintered time across the velvet expanse. My glow, now a memory, splashes across the horizon like a painter’s desperate strokes.”
In these final moments, the universe prepared the gentlest of tombs, woven of stardust and dreams. Time unraveled, unfurling like an ancient tapestry, whispering secrets of its tangled past.
Unheard, unseen, yet irrevocably present, were the whispers of the dunes, echoes of an endless sigh.
Here in the dying glow, we found the star’s words, a haunting melody of light fading into the embrace of a celestial night.
But do the stars hear the murmurs beneath the whispering sands? Only the dunes, ancient and wise, hold that answer, etched in tales untold.