In the fathomless abyss where shadows dance with the stardust, an echo lingers. It whispers secrets of the ancient void, secrets cradled within the folds of time. The stars above, a tapestry of memories, blink in morse code—silent yet deafening.
An ethereal voice emerges, "Do the stars not weep for us?" it trembles through the gravity-defying dialogues that hang like mist in the night sky. A voice, softer than the breeze, answers, "Perhaps... perhaps they sing of our longing."
Alone in this cosmic folding, the void forms a cocoon around a traveler of the unseen. With steps as light as the moon's reflection, they tread paths lined with echoes—each step a creation, each breath, a universe born anew.