“Do you ever think the stars are just like holes in a ceiling?” she asked, the wind tangling her hair. “You know, like a really big night sky just above our heads?”
He paused, eyes lost somewhere in constellations of forgotten words. “Sometimes… I wonder what’s beyond the ceiling,” he replied quietly.
“I heard once that every dream is a universe on its own,” she whispered, her breath mixing with the fog in the mausoleum.
“And what happens when dreams collide?” he murmured, tracing the outlines of invisible stars in the dusty air.
“Have you ever heard the echoes beneath the ocean?” they asked, standing at the precipice of the world.
“Like voices calling from the abyss?” she wondered aloud, “Or perhaps singing a forgotten lullaby.”
“There’s a tale about cosmic echoes,” he said, his fingers dancing over the keys of a spectral piano no one else could see.
“Do they tell stories too?” she questioned, “Or just remind us of what we’ve lost?”
“Whispering winds carry the past,” they confessed to the trees, their voices almost merging with the rustle of unseen leaves.
“And the future, too, probably,” another replied, “It’s just tangled in branches we can’t see.”