In the quiet hours before dawn, the sky was a canvas of endless whispers—hues that caressed the edge of the universe with quiet certainty. Home, nestled beneath the cosmic fabric, pulsed in resonance with the distant galaxies, echoing a serenity known only to the stars.
If you listened close enough, you could hear the stories of celestial wanderers, homesick on light-years journeys. Their dreams woven into the tapestry of constellations—messages in silent Morse, lost to time but not to longing. Each star, a candle in the cosmic cathedral, flickered softly, holding vigil for the worlds unseen.
Somewhere, a comet draped its luminous veil over the lingering footprints of ancient travel. The journey of a lifetime encapsulated within a fleeting glimpse. And so it was, under the guardianship of stardust, a new kind of dwelling was built—not of bricks or timber, but of echoes and memories, a place forever cradled in the vast embrace of the universe.
The cosmos bore witness, as it always did. Stories—realistic tales sewn into the night sky—beckoned the heart back to its rightful home, among the nebulas and supernovae, where every heartbeat resonated in cosmic symphony.