The stars are silent witnesses to the untold stories of wanderers. Beneath their gleaming watch, dreams are shaped, and wanderlust tales find their ink. We stand on this terrestrial patch, cradled by sky and cosmic dust, and wonder about these whispers that echo from infinity.
Once, I saw a boy, just past his prime, tracing patterns in the night sky with his fingers, his mother’s lullabies drifted softly into those starry depths. “I’ll hold you to the moon someday,” she whispered. Yet the boy remained pinned to Earth, gathering stardust dreams.
In another lifetime, we might have climbed these same hills, creating galaxies of our own from firefly lights, with whispered promises lingering in the air. A world where gravity held our cheeks flushed with excitement instead of inertia.