It was on a night veiled in obsidian mystery that we ventured into the realm of static stars. Each pinprick of light held an echo, a cacophony of eras intertwined with shadows.
“Did you hear their whispers?” Elara's voice fractured the silence, bleak as forgotten tombstones, resonating with the weight of ages. “They spoke of a time when the sky was not fragmented, but a whole tapestry of night.”
We had stolen a moment, slipping through a slit in the continuum, our hands dusted with cosmic ash. The stars here remembered. They remembered the kingdoms of light that had crumbled, the voids that had breathed life, and the celestial dances that had woven across the ages.
The clockwork silence ticked ominously as I recalled my last sojourn. The year was whispered by stars perhaps two galaxies far. A chaotic symphony echoed from the blackened depths, as I, a solitary traveler, sought the flickering remnants of time-locked constellations.
“Turn your gaze deeper,” an ancient star murmured, seducing with its radiant decay. “See how the light weeps over millennia, how history's breath condenses in the frost of space.”