Narrated by the silence between stars, a tale begins. The kind that grows in the belly of night, amidst shadows that weave the very fabric of the cosmos itself. It begins with whispers—a rustling that dances like embers in a dying fire.
Upon the edge of this silence, crimson threads are spun—each a pathway, an echo of what once was, or what might yet be. The stars, in their eternal vigil, bear witness to this tapestry, their light flickering in resonance, a mournful serenade to the mandala.
In the weave, a story lies dormant. It speaks of forgotten realms and the specters of time long past—shadows that grasp at the edges of your knowing, yet retreat into the void, leaving only the scent of ancient rain and the touch of cold, gentle winds.
Look closely, and you may find a fragment of truth: The Silent Echo
Or perhaps a whisper of the future: Threads of the Weaver
Beyond the veil, the stars convene, forging sigils in the darkness—a language of light that speaks in tongues unseen. And amid their glow, the crimson threads unravel, revealing the heart of the mandala.
The silence between them is not empty; it is full of secrets, of stories that linger like the last notes of a dirge, echoing into the infinity of all that is, and all that is not.