It began with a hush, and then a quiet ripple that sent tremors through the black sea of night. Cosmic dust settles... a gentle blanket over the weary stars, each speck a whisper of what once was and what could be again.
Are you listening? the echoes seem to ask. They echo not from the stars, but from the valleys of time, where ancient dreams lie buried beneath layers of celestial sediment. There's a voice, distant yet familiar, calling from the edge of forever.
We stand on the precipice, gazing into the abyss, and the abyss gazes back with eyes unblinking, unyielding. The dust settles, and we remember. We remember when words were fireflies dancing across the dark, lighting the path through the wilderness of the soul.
Voices of the ancient ones, carried over the eons on the winds of cosmic storms. Symphonies of silence, they called them, melodies that only the stars could understand.
And then there is the question, the perennial question: What remains? What lingers in the space between heartbeats, in the distance between galaxies? A cosmic chorus, perhaps, or the lonely song of a solitary comet sailing through its eternal dance.