Beyond the whispered precipice of yesterdays, in the chasm where the silent stars weave their tapestry of void and memory, the dance begins. It is not a rhythm of the living, but a pulse that echoes in the darkened halls of forgotten realms. Each step a flicker, each turn a reverberation that sings of nothing and everything. The dancers are shadows, silhouettes of the night, tracing the arcs of their existence against the breath of the cosmos.
There are those who see them—through the veil, with eyes unclouded by the mundane. They speak in hushed tones of spirals and repeats, of scales that fall and recombine in endless symmetry. Yet their words are but another layer of the enigma, a tapestry of understanding woven in the same silence that begets the dance. Listen closely, and you might hear the fractal breath of the universe, inhaling the moments that shimmer between the stars.