The sky sang when the light faded, a harmony locked in the silent hymn of dusk. They called it the Unseen Chorus, an echo of stars heard by the few who dared the whispered edges of night.
Maris had always believed in these songs, melodies carried on the wind like old stories waiting to be retold. She traced her fingers across the outlines of constellations that her grandmother had drawn with faint hope, the stories engraved beneath her skin.
"To hear them, you must listen," her grandmother would say, "not with your ears, but with the silence behind them."
And so, Maris listened, her breaths syncing with the pulse of the universe until the stars dimmed, and the chorus rose, unseen yet profoundly present.
Each note a boundary crossed, each measure a step deeper into the fabric of creation, unraveling and rewriting itself in the constellation of a single evening.
