In the vastness, where echoes do not dare to tread,
the silence grows—like a garden of muted stars.
Threads of thought, woven in the loom of the absent,
create a tapestry of shadows and whispers.
"Do you hear the leaves when they call?" asked the void,
and the void, cloaked in its eternal night, replied with nothing.
Silence speaks a language foreign to the orchestrator,
a code deciphered not by eye nor ear,
but by the dance of lingering echoes on the fringes of time.