In the shadow of the cosmos, ancient songs linger, a tapestry of void and silence.
"I beg you, not again," she murmured, her voice woven with the echoes of galaxies.
"It's not her. It's never her," he replied, face pale against the nebula's glow, eyes hollow with forgotten truths.
"You feel them too," she insisted, gripping the edge of reality like a shipwrecked sailor clutching driftwood.
"It's not her. It's never her," he replied, face pale against the nebula's glow, eyes hollow with forgotten truths.
"You feel them too," she insisted, gripping the edge of reality like a shipwrecked sailor clutching driftwood.
Stars blinked, mournful witnesses to a conversation that danced just out of reach—like shadows fleeing light.
"In dreams, the raven sings," whispered an unseen specter, its breath a chill on the spine.
"But what does it sing about?" asked the other, voice tremoring like leaves in a cosmic storm.
"It sings of you, of us... trapped in this melody, spinning," replied the first, eyes closed as if seeking celestial guidance.
"But what does it sing about?" asked the other, voice tremoring like leaves in a cosmic storm.
"It sings of you, of us... trapped in this melody, spinning," replied the first, eyes closed as if seeking celestial guidance.
Yet, none dared question the source of these nocturnal hymns; it was enough to let them wash over, a dark tide of whispered fables.
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