Amidst the crackling silence, voices emerge, whispering tales of forgotten realms. Each utterance, a specter lingering just beyond grasp. The static hums, a cosmic cradle, housing stories told by none, sung by all.
A single oscillator's flicker forms the lighthouse amidst this storm of absence. It beckons, it watches. Into its glow, images condense: a child with headphones, swaying to the rhythm of an unseen orchestra.
Beneath the overlay, a truth hums quietly, not yet ready to be spoken. It shimmers, it fractures—ready to drape itself over the mind's eye like dew on the morning grass.
In the places where reality stutters, it leaves behind ghostly harmonies: a synthesis of the known and yet to be discovered. Paths of lore unfurl, made of murmurs, hung in the air, unseen yet undeniably present.