The cobalt canvas stretches above, dotted with tears of young giants, whose stories weave through the dark like whispers on winter's breath.
In the beginning, before beginnings had names, stories were etched in the heavens—stars joined in silent symphony to narrate the epochs of forgotten tongues.
Palimpsest skies erase and rewrite the ink of gods, each constellation a burnt page from a tome of twilight confessions.
The Leviathan coils around Orion's belt, unseen in modern myths, yet once revered as the keeper of the undercurrent's breath, a guardian of unspoken depths.
Seekers trace the arched lines of celestial pathways, following paths from mystic orbits to timeless echoes, in pursuit of truths carved in astral stone.
The comet, a fracture in the night's tapestry, glides above, murmuring tales of rebirth and ancestral fire as it scatters stardust in dreams long deferred.
Every star tells a story, every constellation a lost memory. Touch the sky, trace the firmament with trembling hands, and remember what remembrance forgot.