“Did you ever think about the days in between? Those faint echoes of laughter and sunlight star-streaked across the cosmos?”
“I once spoke to a tree. It told me secrets of ancient winds, whispering like soft rain on forgotten paths.”
“Between suppertime and bedtime, something whistles—a far off beckoning, calling your name into the void.”
“The stars sometimes gossip—have you heard their tales of love and shatter? In orbit or under shade?”
“Mom always said to follow the light, but I followed the whispers instead, thinking perhaps they led to a secret.”
What happens when the whispers are tired?