In the year of our star's silent breath, when lunar whispers told secrets of centuries yet to unfold, I found you there. A silhouette in silver, woven from the threads of forgotten lore. Your voice—an echo that danced with meteors, igniting a stellar passion across time's relentless expanse. Return, they whispered, but we were lost in another hour's embrace.
Do you remember, in the echoes of spring 1892, beneath the sycamore's watchful gaze? Our hearts penned an unending sonnet, the air thick with time's tender caress. Each phrase a step upon the cobbled roads of Paris, winding through the ages like threads of the fabric that held the universe together. The void sighed, without remorse.
Once, during the twilight of a post-war dawn, I saw your reflection in a rivulet of golden seconds. You were standing on the precipice between then and now, as I reached out—a futile attempt to bridge the chasm with hands woven from dreams and longing. Someday, the stars promised. Someday.