Just another orbit, another sun setting behind the rings. Here, on Pandora's fringe, the remnants of long-forgotten dreams swirl around like dust motes in the light. Sometimes I hear whispers in the void, echoes of voices long past. Do they call out your names, searching the endless depths for what was left behind?
Sorella sends her regards. They've adapted the silicate blooms into new art forms—holographic displays that ripple like tidepools under an unseen moon. You'd love them.
Word from the far edges of Veridonia: the bridgekeeper's tale still echoes through the canyons. Shana claims to have seen him, a specter clad in starlight, fingers lingering on stringed songs that tremor the very fabric of space.
Your name was spoken there, woven into the cosmos. Do you remember these tales, spun over the crackling fires of distant worlds?
Out here, the stars are endless and unyielding. The dust drifts like memories on wind, settling softly, touching ever so lightly upon the soul. Here, the fabric of space is a canvas, painted with light and shadow, waiting for the brush of time.
As if by magic, the colors shift, and you see faces in the constellations, familiar and strange all at once.