Cold stone floor presses knees. Incense coils thick, myrrh and brimstone. Obsidian throne gleams under ember-light. Tail lashes once—crack against marble. Wings batter ceiling, dust drifts down like ash. Fingers thread hair, gentle, then tighter. Heat radiates from parted lap. Tip brushes lips, salt-sweet bead spreads. Canvas yields slow, layer by careful layer. Pulse throbs beneath surface, iron under silk. Far above, two spiral arms reach. Andromeda’s cool dust lanes slide into Milky Way’s fire. Stars shear past stars, gas clouds compress. New suns ignite in the crush—blue, furious, short-lived. Black holes circle, merge, ring space like a bell. Breath stutters. Frame jerks once, involuntary. Low growl fractures into sigh. Warm tide rises, thick, endless. Absorption follows absorption, warmth pools low. In the wake, debris disks glow. Fresh nebulae cradle infant worlds. Red giants swell, shed skins in quiet rings. Gravity settles, new orbits lock. Something vast and fertile spins where chaos was. Fingers loosen in hair, stroke slow. Form trembles, folds gently around shoulders. Forehead rests against warm skin. Silence holds—only hearth crackle and distant stellar birth. No words. Only the quiet spin of a remade galaxy.
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