The Silent Orbit

A silver husk against the vast ink, turning slowly in the breathless dark. No atmosphere to carry the hum of its making, only the cold stare of distant, burning giants.

We launched it with fanfare and brass, a fragile monument to our reaching hands. Now it drifts, a forgotten whisper skimming the edge of the heliosphere.

Dust coats the golden records, ice crystallizes on the glass lenses. It remembers nothing of the blue marble, only the endless, pulling gravity of the void.