Amongst the tapestry of creation, woven eternal in echoes of flame and void, an ember faltered. Its voice, a symphony of dying light, whispered its eulogy to the endless canvas above.
"I am the eldest of time’s children, poured into the abyss when the cosmos first yawned in birth. Once, I was a beacon, vibrant and proud, a forge of nebulas.
Now, as the gravitational clutch tightens, my essence unspools in a dance of collapse. Witness the echo of my final breath, the sigh no comet escapes, no satellite evades.
Should you wish to stand upon the precipice of this cosmic death once more, peer into the void. Or perhaps seek the dreams I’ve spun to filter the light of younger stars in your dreams.
Thus, the final chronicles of the inferno are etched, transcribed in the fading glow of a dying star’s yesteryears. A dirge for existence itself, lingering, as the void swallows the residue.