In the ancient void where cries of stars once dance, silence becomes a scribe, etching tales on the skin of the night. The whispers linger, a gentle consumption of cosmic breath. And in this eternal stillness, the story unravels.
"They are but echoes of dreams," she murmured, her voice a shadow drawn across the moon's pallor.
"In dreams, we are all but whispers, lost between the breaths of galaxies."
The silence speaks when no one dares to listen, unraveling the dark tapestry that binds the forgotten planets. Through these fathoms, the stars' light is naught but the ghostly fingers of destiny, weaving the celestial loom with threads of time.
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