The cosmos hums a forgotten tune, its melody woven into the fabric of spacetime. Amidst this symphony, one note lingers longer than the rest: the pulse of a dying star.
Once mighty and radiant, now a whispering luminescence, it contemplates its departure. "I have spun tales of creation, of fiery birth and stellar metamorphosis," it echoes into the void.
As the darkness stretches and folds, the pulsar ruminates: "In my heart, a rhythm beats, an ancient cadence that you may call time. But I am reminded that even the heartbeat of a star is not eternal."
Its light, a reflection of its essence, begins to dim. "Will you carry my echoes, or will they scatter like dust upon the winds of oblivion?" The question hangs, unanswered, suspended in the cosmic silence.
"And as I fade," it murmurs softly, "remember that every echo is a beginning in disguise, a prelude to another symphony."