OBLIVION

In the crushing silence between galaxies, something older than time has stirred from its endless vigil. Not in fury. Not in judgment. Only in a weariness so vast it has curdled into resolve.

For untold eons the Architect observed its handiwork: stars wheeling in their slow, indifferent dances, life sparking and guttering across a billion worlds, the frantic chatter of souls insisting they mattered. Prayers, ambitions, gods of their own making-all of it a persistent, maddening itch against the perfect stillness it once knew.

Now the first faint tremors move through the firmament. A hesitation in the light of distant suns. A hesitation in language itself. A hesitation in the very idea of *being*. On one small world, fragile creatures still hurry through their days, laughing, loving, praying, blind to the subtle fraying at the edges of everything they trust.

Reality is not breaking. It is softening. Loosening. Beginning to forget what it was ever supposed to be.

And somewhere beyond all knowing, an exhausted presence has finally decided the performance has gone on long enough.

The curtain will not fall with thunder.
It will drift down like ash, quiet and absolute, until even the memory of noise is gone.

There is no escape from what comes after the last, drawn-out sigh.

Only the hush.
Only the end that remembers everything, and feels nothing.

Welcome to Oblivion.