The cluster stretches on without end, and every pilot drifts through it carrying a story they may or may not remember. Some tales ignite like plasma, others whisper like coolant in a dead reactor, and most never decide what they want to be. Ships vanish, empires tilt, and still the capsule persists—quiet, watching, pretending it knows nothing. Every name is a path, every path casts a shadow, and every shadow hides something that insists it was never there in the first place.
Meaning is optional. Interpretation is dangerous. And if you think you’ve grasped the truth, check again—something shifted when you weren’t looking.
What you see here is only the surface. Or maybe the reflection. Hard to say.