"Do the stars breathe?" whispered one voice, barely a rustle in the wind between galaxies. "Only when we listen intently, like waiting for a tree’s age to whisper in rings."
She drifted amid the ethereal glow, gathering fragments of threads woven by the unseen loom. Its purpose? Only the Milky Roads knew, pathways of density yet to spread for time travelers.
"It's said the dust remembers every step taken upon it, a footnote of existence echoing into voids yet unformed." So murmured a shadow behind the comet's glowing tail, its voice cloaked in the quiet of celestial tides.
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