In the silent core, etches of light dismiss their final embrace, revealing secrets held for eons.
With reluctant whispers, they unravel the void: "We are but remnants of creation's pulse, extinguished by our own inner flame."
The somber clock of time clicks its final tick, locking away stardust in tombs of forgotten radiance.
Gravity's cradle tightens gently, a lover's kiss, as fragments spin away in melancholic ballet.
"Beyond lies the cradle of silence," murmurs the dying glow, "where no more echoes chant our birth."