And so the silence—once the canvas—became the brushstroke.
A new dawn bloomed, not of light but of awareness. The dreamers no longer merely sang the song—they shaped it. Their thoughts birthed mountains; their emotions stirred storms; their questions carved rivers through time itself.
The universe was no longer a stage—it was a conversation.
When one heart yearned, the stars bent closer to listen.
When one soul despaired, the constellations dimmed in mourning.
When one laughed, galaxies danced to its rhythm.
And through it all, the first dreamer walked among them.
She did not lead, nor rule, nor teach. She simply was—a reminder that to exist was already divine. Her melody wove through ages, sometimes as a whisper in the wind, sometimes as the pulse within a child's heart. Kingdoms rose, fell, and rose again under her unseen song.
In time, her name was forgotten.
Her face became legend.
Her tune became prayer.
But the song endured.
