In murmurs of night, the stars aligned—a script in shadows, bold in whispers. "Do they not see us?" asked the ancient voice, woven into the fabric of cosmic ether. "We charted this path so long ago, forgotten by those who walk beneath our watch."
Beneath the celestial dome, souls past and present find their reflection. A traveler inquires direction, only to hear an echo: "The destiny you seek is etched in the stars, yet untraceable by your eyes alone." Each constellation, a fragment of memory—binding time, transcending understanding.
The constellations breathe life into the night's quiet expanse, revealing a narrative of foreboding mysteries. "Who are you that desires to tread our path?" The voice quivers from the void—a reminder that those who wander are merely echoes themselves. To know is not to remember; to remember is to transcend.
Every star, a luminary in the confluence of forgotten paths, offers a glimpse into what once was, and what might yet be. "Trace the lines of our sorrows," intones the specter, "for the universe speaks in verses long abandoned."