In the womb of eternity, where light bends to the chorus of silence, a voice trembles: "I was once a beacon, a forge of atomic dreams, now a shadow bound to echo."
Stars, after all, are the cosmic storytellers. Their end is not an erasure, but a solemn chapter read in whispers. A memory of light cascading through the void, destined to linger in the hearts of galaxies yet born.
"What is a star without its glow?" asked the blackened void. "A story yet told, for I shall weave through the particles, a luminary's requiem, etched in the dance of quasar embers."
Beyond this stellar grave, possibilities sprout anew — black holes bearing witness to the celestial opera, while time itself holds breathe at the entrance of the spectral realms.
Journey onward through: