It begins with the stars—silent witnesses bending light into graceful halos. Each orb spins its tale.
I heard it again last night, just near the old oak. Footsteps, perhaps, or simply the grass whispering secrets anew.
An elderly astronomer once told me the orbits have a rhythm more primordial than we realize.
I sat under the vast canopy, a forgotten observer. The milky river danced, echoing unseen phantom steps.