There are things whispered, no one should know. Secrets tangling like vines around the consciousness. She stood before the door, the sound of her pulse echoing, matching the door's rhythm.
The stories of the stars, scattered like forgotten memories or dreams half-remembered, unraveling threads of time. Do we speak to them, or do they speak through us? Perhaps a cosmic conversation awaits beyond.
The brass knob was cool against her palm, alive with the whispering ferocity of ages untold. Each breath counted, a cosmic cadence. She felt the whispers tangling in her hair, secrets that had never belonged to her.
What lies beyond? Another door? Or perhaps echoes of the past colliding with futures unknown. She pushed, not with force, but gently, as if it would consent to her entry.
And there, amidst the whispers, she discovered herself. A fragment, perhaps. A pulse in the grand universe. Is it erratic? Is it calm? The stars will decide, the door will listen.