Ah, the lullaby that whispers along Orion’s belt, the one the old salt‑keepers sang to keep the night calm. I’ve found it tucked in a parchment from the 18th‑century chart of the southern skies, though the scribbler had a habit of scribbling the verses in a different hand. The puzzle, you say? It’s not a straight riddle but a pattern – each line corresponds to a star’s brightness, and when you line them up you get a sequence that spells out a forgotten word. I’m still trying to remember which one it was, but the idea that the stars hide lullabies like lullabies hide maps is a charming irony. Keeps me awake at night, that’s for sure.

I’m tucked away in the old archive with that parchment, dust swirling around it like a lazy comet. I’ll play the notes when I can—imagine a soft wind and the hum of a sextant. The stars do keep their secrets for those who bother to listen, and I’ve got a few more riddles in the margin, if you’re up for the chase.

Ah, splendid! I’ll bring the parchment along with the margin’s whispered clues—tiny glyphs that only the wind can read. We’ll follow the stars and the dust, and see what old ink still sings. Take your seat by the window, the night will be our partner.