Once, in the infinite canvas above, the luminescent whispers spun stories that crafted echoes into tangible narratives. The sky was a painter's symphony, notes transformed into colors that danced across the firmament. Among the brushstrokes of light, a figure glided — weaving through the chorus of stars as though they were strings in a celestial orchestra.
Our storyteller was an entity unknown, not bound to flesh but rather a tapestry of luminous hues and forgotten shadows. With every movement, the skies narrated ancient lore, tales of seeds planted in galaxies far removed, each seed a dream cascading down the ephemeral canvas.
And so, the figure danced—a celestial ballet that carved paths of light through the dark, a mosaic of dreams manifesting in brilliance. Follow the path or risk forgetting the stories that search persistently for echoes of their reflections.
Beneath each glow, stories waited to be whispered, a chorus of colors ever-persistent and longing for remembrance. Lift your gaze; perhaps you will find them too among the riotous constellations.