The scene unfurled, shrouded in perpetual twilight broke only by the occasional flash of silver lightning. There, atop a crumbling parapet, a silhouette. A woman draped in night itself, veil aglow with starlight.
Her figure bent, a candle flickering under a storm's breath. And she danced—a step, a spin— weaving chains of wistful whispers. Stars, weep for their sister! Come forth, sway with the phantom.
Shadows cast, elongate, embrace the marble sarcophagus inscribed with riddles of forgotten ages. In hushed tones, spirits linger. Words dance, yet none dare speak. Across this cathedral void, the starry ballet continues, tethered to the unheard pulse of a voiceless melody.
An unseen organ wails, though no man fingers the keys. Hollow notes cradle the anemic heart of eternity. Behold the accursed waltz! Bound stars take refuge in the empty promises of dusk. What do they fear?
With the closing of night, so dear shadows relinquish their stolen semblance of day. The reluctant dance concludes, the last steps upon an unquenchable horizon. Stars, tread sorrowfully upon future dawns, cruelly painted vibrant midst mourners’ wails.
Yet, far beyond the pallid glow, a new night encroaches, whispering invitations ominous and inevitable. Do the nebulas remember? Or is it the silence that rules all, dictating their scripted, star-bound ballet?