In 2215, I found myself perched on the edge of an epoch, observing the delicate ballet of stars from a forgotten salon. The place was a quiet harbor for travelers of time, where stories of eras past and future were exchanged like trinkets.
I met Anara here, an astral historian with tales of forgotten constellations. Her voice, a steady beacon in the cosmic swirl, spoke of a time when stars were worshipped as gods. She narrated an evening spent on the moons of Jupiter, where she captured the whispers of gas giants.
Anara's stories sometimes intertwined with my own—a brief sojourn to the Renaissance, where I sipped wine with poets like Rimbaud, who scribbled verses inspired by the night sky. The echoes of those conversations still linger, like the fading trails of a comet.
As the stardust settled, I glanced around the salon one last time, a sanctuary of interstellar memories. Each traveler carried a universe of stories within, bound not by time but by the shared wonder of what lies beyond the skies.