In the dance of constellations, lying in wait, the satellite whispers.
Echoes scatter like dreamdust across the velvet nightscape. Are they memories? Or shadows of futures yet unwritten?
The leaves of time shimmer, whispering secrets in a language only understood by the stars.
These totems, ancient and knowing, stand resolutely upon the cosmic shore, marking hours in arcs unseen.
Have the echoes... voyaged before? Or are they reborn anew with each tide?
One cold morning, beneath an azure dome, a melody of echoes played upon the silken weft of reality.
A traveler danced through it, footsteps trailing light. Cycles within cycles, indeed.