It's a subtle dance. The night, the stars, and the whispers. Whispers that never change.
The moon watches, but no one sees its gaze. The cycle continues, just like it always has. Like a record, scratched, worn—always the same tune. It hums. It whispers.
I hear it, though sometimes, it's distant. Like thinking of a place you've never been, but somehow know. That's the feeling here. The umbra embraces a gentle touch. Shadows lag. The stories repeat.
A slight chill settles as the echoes of silent calls linger longer than they should. Calls that seem to belong to another place. Another time.
When does the echo become new? When does the record stop its worn path? Never. Always. These always refrain.
The umbra is patient. It knows time does not exist within its gentle grasp. A soft breath in the cosmos, where all things whisper their stories.