In a room stripped bare, where echoes tremble light against the walls, the stars speak.
Footsteps trace patterns on the floor, but voices remain hushed, held captive by silence’s delicate grasp. After all, in this hollow sanctuary, loneliness crochets a tapestry of dreams from the whispers of distant constellations.
An ancient telescope rests in the corner, its glass eye forever peering into the cosmos. The lens gathers dust like a shroud, but the wanderer knows the stars’ secrets. They've inhaled nebulae's ethereal perfume and tasted the void’s bittersweet embrace.
Outside, the wind carries stories from forgotten worlds, tales of kingdoms built on stardust and dreams, of empires whose reigns were measured not in years but in light-years. A flicker of light—a comet, perhaps—etches a momentary path across the vaulted ceiling of the night sky.
Once, in a phrase barely audible against the hum of creation, a star uttered its name: Andromedian Ash, forged in the crucible of ancient supernovae, wandering the universe with untold wisdom.
And so the room reverberates, a vessel for echoes of the past and whispers of futures yet unwritten, where every mote of starlight is a memory tethered to eternity...
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