In the vast corridors of the soul, where echoes from unfathomable stars convene, there lies a whisper.
A tale etched in shadows, stitched together with the sinews of night, where every breath is a tombstone in the cemetery of forgotten dreams. It speaks of the time when the universe gently sighed and the secrets held within its cosmic embrace began to unravel.
The air crackles with the essence of echoes, each one a testament to the silent screams of galaxies adrift. You place your ear against the void, only to hear the muted shatter of astral glass.
The labyrinthine skies stretch endlessly, their folds weaving a tapestry of light and darkness. Here, every star is a portent, whispering tales of old, dancing alone in its silent vigil.
Among these cosmic phantoms, the void calls your name—a whisper carried on the breath of nebulae, the silent thrum of a thousand dying suns.