Here lies the end of light, the cusp of shadow.
The star's voice is but a thin thread in the cosmic tapestry, frayed and flickering. A whisper upon the void, its final syllables tracing silhouettes upon silent echoes.
An expanse unfolds: the remnants of stellar warmth paint the canvas of space, where the outlines of forgotten giants waltz with the silent death of their ancestral glow.
"I am the sunset of a thousand dawns," it murmurs, in tones drenched with the chalice of infinity.
From the depths of voided memory, a lone silhouette strides, carving its name in the ashes of supernovae. Silently it questions: who remembers the embers of this star's birth, the luminescent cradle that cheered its inception?
The answer, a refrain of forgotten hymns, drifts in the pallid space: that which is born must wither, must fade into the ether like a whisper, like a shadow.