Once upon a night painted in cosmic chiaroscuro, a ship sails not upon water, but through the mist of time itself. The crew, silhouettes against the glowing orb above, speak in tongues older than their vessel.
A bell tolls thrice, echoing across the astral sea. It is neither sound nor silence, but a pause in the heart of infinity. The stars blink languidly, their rhythm an ancient lullaby.
In the shadow of the full moon, phantoms dance—a ballet of forgotten eras. Each pirouette a stanza in an unsung ode. There is no audience, yet the universe stands enraptured in the moment.