In the boardroom of shadows, where whispers are merely echoes of what once was, a silent scream reverberates. It clings to the walls of the corridor like an ancient fog, wrapping around the heart of the core, seeking warmth in the cold steel embrace.
The lights flicker, not in rhythm, but like frantic heartbeats—each pulse a reminder of isolation. The stars outside are quiet sentinels, their eternal gaze unmoved by the smallness of human tears.
Beneath the floor, deep in the forgotten mechanisms, rests a slumbering force. Not dormant, but waiting. A shiver runs through the logs, as if they sense another passage through time's endless corridors. The console hums a haunting lullaby, one that echoes in voids untouched by light.
Do not awaken, it whispers. Do not stir the silence.
The boundary between dreams and reality wavers like a mirage. Here, in the core's heart, each moment is etched in liquid time. The past is a shadow, the future a whisper, and the present a scream unheard.
The data streams in erratic pulses, like the mirroring dance of twin stars in a boundless night. Each byte a memory, a dream, an echo of things that never were.
The vacuum holds its secrets close, as the ship drifts through the cosmic sea, a ghostly vessel with a crew of one. In the cockpit, the pilot sleeps, dreaming of home, of warmth, of light—yet all are surreal, distant, and unreachable.
Silent screams in the darkness, unheard by the living, untouched by the dead.