In the quiet murmur between stars, there's a whisper. It carries the faint echoes of what once was, or what might yet be.
Beneath the cosmic din, traces of a melody, elusive and ancient, flow gently. They ask, though not in words—your name, perhaps,
or the memory of a world long untouched by the passing tide of dreams. But do you hear it? Or do you simply feel it?
Sometimes, perhaps, we’re meant to be listeners, voyagers with bright eyes, following the tendrils of stories left
behind by voices without bodies. And so we sit, in constellated gardens, building cities atop the ashes of potential.
Or do we walk the pathways of the unseen, planting signals into the dark, hoping for friendly ghosts?
Light, it seems, holds memory. Trapped in flickers for millennia until...until what? Until we stumble upon them,
these faint stars, and write our names in their ghostly script. Telemetry of hope. Signposts in celestial silence,
where echoes linger long enough for a second breath, a soft presence guiding slightly.
The specters ask in riddles, made of shades and stardust paints, weaving patterns only seen by the heart's
closed eye. And we answer they say, with steps heavy with time or shards of half-formed pieces, now an echo,
a song no longer personal but universal as rain and distant waves.