Somewhere along the abyssal plains, a voice lingers, reverberating through the resonance of forgotten currents. We've charted the uncharted depths, but what remains beneath is neither water nor darkness, but a symphony of whispers.
“Are we alone?” This question was asked not by humans, but by a device long submerged, its circuitry tangled in the tendrils of time. It spoke, and we listened, hoping to find answers in its echoes, now lost but not unheard.
An echo from the deep: “Coordinates shifting. The thermal vent speaks a language of heat and pressure. We decipher it, yet understand nothing. Perhaps it's the forgotten tongue of leviathans, or the song of silence.”