They say the night sky whispers, but only to those who dare linger long after the world has fallen quiet. She was one such soul — a woman of pale ink and candlelight, who traced the constellations from her window as if they might answer her secret longings. Each silver glimmer above became a note in the silent serenade she heard only in the deepest hours, when the veil between earth and sky thinned.
They called her a dreamer. Some called her mad. But she knew better: those distant lights were ancient voices, calling not with words, but with the soft pull of silver threads weaving through the dark. And when she clasped her adornments close — cool against her throat — it was as though the heavens answered back with a shimmer.
This piece is a relic of that hush between worlds, a tribute to the solitary stargazer who found her solace not in company, but in the eternal, unblinking gaze of the night.
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