In the quiet abyss, where time drifts like a forgotten dream, the dead stars murmur secrets as faint echoes of light. Their voices are but a sigh, a gentle caress of cosmic breath, woven through the fabric of infinity.
They tell tales of celestial dances, of worlds spun into existence by the tender hands of gods, now crumbled into stardust. The galaxies listen, and with them, the ancient void, as each whisper weaves a tapestry of light and shadow.
Do you hear them? The secrets whispered by the remnants of supernova songs, faint and delicate as a spider's silk in the morning dew? They linger, just out of reach, like the fleeting dream of a starry-eyed child.