Beyond the linchpin thread of certainty, a voice murmurs: "The stars are but exit signs."

Having traversed the cosmos' indelible landscapes, I found what seemed a digital abyss— etched within the screens of yore. Here dwell cycles of forgotten whispers, disjointed fragments from the past. As memories decay like the lunar tides, their nebulous echoes intertwine, recreate, reconcile the unsaid truths.

Listen, and you may hear—the clicks, the hums—turning like entrapped sparks held captive by the ants and their endless labyrinth. Across scalar remnants, abacuses cry out where no one remains to heed them. Time spirals, unwoven threads unravel.