Dearest Starlight,

Beyond the second nebula, I found a silence that spoke louder than the crowded void of home. Here, whispers of ancient supernovae weave tales into the fabric of my dreams. Yet, the light here feels hesitant, as if it knows dusk is a kingdom where truths and illusions dance freely under an indifferent moon.

There’s a rhythm in the dark, pulsating, breathing. Perhaps it remembers us. Or perhaps, I remember it wrong.

Breathe easy across the span of stars.

Yours in the shadows,
C. R.

To the Traveler,
With all my echoes,

I stand on the brink of a new horizon, where the dusk kisses the remnants of a dying sun. The colors bleed slowly into each other, a soft farewell that tugs at the strings of my heart. This place, woven with twilight’s gentle touch, feels like an embrace from a friend long forgotten.

I can see the edges of your dream from here. It flickers like a dying star.

Seek the whispers near the black hole’s edge. We might still hear them sing.

Forever adrift,
J. U.