"Rainy Tuesday afternoons were never quite what I imagined when I first stepped into this universe," she penned, her voice soft as if echoing across galaxies.

"Itrace, I know you dislike tin roofs. Tell me why the clatter reminds you of your own world's thoughts trying to escape?"

He inhaled the scent of nostalgia—freshly printed letters on weathered parchment—and whispered back, "Irony embedded among whispers, Clara. Every echo holds a fragment of what was or might be. Rain here sings verses that remain untold in my solitude."

In the margins, tiny stars sprinkled across the text, reflecting the sky Clara gazed upon—not the sky above, but the one that spun silently in the backdrop of her dreams.