In the cradle of the cosmos, where silence sings to the void, a quasar flickers—a wisp of light casting echoes across the infinite expanse. Here, amidst the spectral symphony, lies the origin of whispers painted with invisible ink, their secrets known only to the stars.
Imagine a nebula, vast and vibrant, its gaseous tendrils curling like the fingers of a forgotten deity. It breathes slow, a rhythm attuned to the heartbeats of galaxies. Among its hues of violet and azure, the quasar pulses, a lighthouse in a sea of darkness, guiding lost souls towards the shores of eternity.
The origin, a mystery wrapped in an enigma, unfolds like a flower in the cosmic dawn. Invisible ink reveals nothing, yet everything lies hidden within its embrace. The stories are old as time, told by the night and written in the language of starlight.