The telescope had been silent for too long. So many nights spent searching, like a child peering longingly through a window, its breath fogging the glass. But there was no warmth, only cold stars, and spectral forms that spiraled through the void just beyond reach. In that silence, the darkness sometimes felt too loud.
Imagine the stars not as distant suns but as tortured souls, whispering secrets in the cosmic wind, their voices lost in the infinite expanse. They tell stories of violence and evolution, of matter stretching and bending, of forms unseen by any human eye.
We listen, not with ears but with the quiet hum of electronics, translating light into sound, hope into despair. Each pulse a step deeper into the unknown, where silence echoes like a scream.