In the void, where no eyes can see and no ears hear, the fragments of soundless whispers travel. Between billion-year leaps of light, they pause, waiting for understanding, waiting for a haven in quiet thoughts.
To a star, its life is a fervent cycle: birth, flame, cold solitude, and posthumous wanderings. Some stars never know their birthplaces; they find homes, rather than origins.
Have you heard of stories written with starlight inks? Chronicles vast as the universe, transported in shimmers of solar wind. An echo, seemingly omnipresent, claims familiarity. It speaks ages absorbed, suspended eternally in the echoes.
Does space remember the hopes of long-extinguished suns? Do they etch memories beneath their swath of eternities, silently pleading existence's recognition?