In the engulfing shadow, where silence entwines the infinite, there dances a murmur — fleeting, elusive. A requiem, whispered not, but embodied in cosmic dust, clothed in regretful melodies of stars long dead.
An echo in a hollow chamber, resounding through epochs unseen. Here lies the nebula's trove of memories, curled like archaic scrolls, waiting to unfurl the stories of celestial embers and their solemn hollow breaths.
Once, these voices sang of galaxies being knit from astral fabric under a pallid moon, a communion of light and shadow rolling in infinite circles. Now, they just whisper...