In the beginning, there were clocks whispering promises of chronology out into the ether, a symphony of punctuality ringing through the air like the heartbeat of a titan, its resonance diminished only by the distance of time.
When the last chime fell into silence, it left behind a void—an echo in reverse that swallowed sound and forged a new reality, where the starlit sky became a canvas for forgotten rhythms. Astronomers noted strange phenomena; the predictable dance of celestial bodies had become erratic, as if interpreting an ancient song contained within their unyielding orbits.
Beneath the star-soaked expanse, unseen hands began to chronicle these disturbances on fragmentary tablets, messages conveyed through constellations written by the whims of a star-storm. Faint signals, they called it, a murmur from a cosmos in secret dialogue.
No one knows when the stars first began to sing, or which epoch etched the vibrations into their cosmic arteries. All we have are interpretations filled with wonder, despair, hope—unending attempts to translate these whispers into something tangible, something we could hold onto as belief or truth in the face of the oceanic unknown.