Ever wonder what happens to those whispers caught between stars? Just last night, I overheard a fragment from 1930...
"And there will be light," she said, her voice barely above the rustling of the emerald leaves.
It's strange, isn't it? How some stories sink like ships in the ocean of time while others float, aimlessly orbiting our recollections.
The other day, I stumbled upon a rusted typewriter, its keys forever frozen, like the hands of a clock whispering secrets in reverse.
"It is not the words themselves, but the silence between," the old man murmured, eyes reflecting forgotten galaxies.
Maybe there's a universe in every message left unsent, a multiverse where decisions are galaxies, and missed connections form the constellations.