As the vessel tilted towards the unseen edge, we glimpsed the tethered dance of nebulae. Their lights whispered truths obscured by millennia. Navigator Aris inscribed these words with trembling hands, the quill a mere scribe for celestial forces unknown. Each star, a silent witness.
Through shadow and loss, we charted the eclipse's path, tracing forgotten lines of light with a reverence built from awe and fear. Omen or guide, the eclipsed orb murmured secrets we dare not repeat. In this silence, the galaxy unfolds its tapestry, one thread at a time.
Asleep, the stars weave dreams of old. Dreams of nameless progenitors who sailed these voids before us, their wisdom etched in constellations now. Memory, an intangible captor, ropes us to these spectral truths, and we navigate, forever haunted by our ancestors’ sighs.