In the dim light of the table lamp, Claire hesitated, her eyes tracing the lines etched into the wood. The horizon had fractured again, she told him, as if reality had become an old photograph peeling at the edges. What was it they were standing on, really? A landscape painted by forgotten dreams, unraveling as they walked.
"How do we walk if all that means a path draws is the echo of futureless pasts?"
There was a whispering in the stars, an unstrung melody that only those attuned to the silence could hear. Mike leaned back, eyes fixed on the inky void beyond the window. It was as if the universe itself questioned their presence, demanded answers never spoken aloud.
"The sea of stars carries whispers that drown in their own silence."
We find ourselves, time and again, on the edge of oblivion. Sarah spoke softly, her voice almost lost amidst the crackling of the fireplace. These forgotten conversations echo through the ages, she mused, each syllable a star extinguished in the vastness, each pause a new constellation born in darkness.
"What constellations do our silences map in the void?"