The Silent Orbit

Dust rings the ancient sphere, a halo spun from shattered moons and frozen breath of dying stars. We drift in the vast, cold sea, listening for a pulse that never comes.

A pale light streaks the obsidian canvas, a comet's fleeting, brilliant tear across the face of the unblinking void. It carries memories of heat, of violent births in distant nebulas.

Here, time is measured not in hours, but in the slow rotation of the galaxy, the gradual fading of the cosmic hum. We are shadows in the grand design, witnesses to the eternal, silent dance.