In the stillness of a moonlit night, I heard them—echoes of forgotten whispers, tracing circles through the void. Each voice an unfinished story, a memory suspended between the past and what could have been.

"If time were liquid," she mused, "we could sail backwards."

He countered, "And split our dreams into rivulets, each flowing to a different dawn."

The stars above blinked knowingly. The universe is an infinite library, filled with books whose pages have yet to be written, whose words are echoes yet to be spoken.