In the hollowed night, the stars murmured forgotten tales. Constellations, once vibrant legacies of the firmament, now flicker with shadows. Diagrams of dreams etched into the cosmic void, tracing paths through sepulchres of eternity.
Beneath the spectral glow, a single whisper echoes: “We were once the maps of wanderers' hopes.”
Yet here they linger, lost in the grasp of a night unending. The sky, a tapestry of cryptic symbols, speaks in tongues of rust and dust. Its silence is alive, a breath of graves and molten stars.
Seek solace in the graveyard of souls, an expanse where the remnants of old dreams slumber, or venture to the abyssal chamber, where whispers turn to wails beneath the moss-laden stones.