Imagine, on a cold autumn eve, a gentle rustling of leaves plays in the global garden—a whispering voice from afar. The sky, an ocean of constellations, sings a symphony we are too blind to see. We tune our hearts to fathom it, seeking harmony, lost in the nocturnal waltz.
In the symphony of limbs, the stars tell stories in pulses: a distant trumpet echoes the touch of a cat's paw on the morning fog; Bangalore's rains play a marimba behind a skin of ozone, while the wind carries distant contralto murmurs from somewhere above Headlines.
Beneath it all lies cosmic orchestration— one note strained from the edge of time, waiting for a pair of shoulders to cradle it into existence.