Stars hold silence like dusty curtains hold light
There’s a room in the blanket of night, where the world folds itself while waiting for dawn. It's not a grand room — rather, a simple alcove carved by time between the last star and the one next to it. When silence writes the stars between lines of endless space, whispers form in that alcove.
I've seen your shadow there, woven into the quiet. Breathing like an aged curtain, its tremors echoing faintly among particles never to be heard. Here, the silence speaks in tones that only stars could understand, a balanced dialogue of the cosmic expanse.
Inside that space, I told you, there are no stories but the beginnings of whispers. Each one waits to meet its matching star, only suspended in time. These whispers span vast distances, shorter than lone breaths yet larger than the universe imagined.
We are custodians of these whispers, entities who linger at the edge of this room, holding our hands open like pages waiting to be filled with ink. And while we whisper back, the stars are all ears, listening in a patience that's unlike any known to humankind.