At its fullness the galaxy resembled a sanctuary of quiet. Stars glowed with a unwavering brilliance, their fiery beginnings now distant memories. Nebulae rested like motionless glowing murals. The vast spiral arms remained locked in a timeless rotation. The Quiet was no state; it embodied reality. The cosmos had resolved its puzzle, a splendid formula precisely balanced, to the infinite decimal point.
But.
But.
If someone possessed senses tuned not to illumination or gravity but to the feel of possibility to the slope in the realm of calm one would perceive it. Not a noise,. A design, within the quiet.
A soft, persistent knock.
It originated from the drifting Geode, depleted, now a barren diamond spinning through the cosmic night its initial function fulfilled. Still behind it it left a mental mark—the trace of its crossing, the phantom of its trapped tempest. It was a flutter, in the void's exhale.
It originated from Aethel, the water-world. A planet that radiated not from biological rivalry but, from the gentle bioluminescent murmur of cultivated longing. The Divine Discontent was a melodic planet-wide vibration—a tune of "what if" voiced into the "what is." It was the noise of a world softly consistently addressing a yearning it held dear.
It originated from the dwarf that once served as humanity's sun, a chilled ember of flawless carbon.. If one paid close attention within the utter quantum silence of its crystal core, a subtle preserved reverberation of an outburst could be heard. The Prometheus Scorch, on Mars had vanished, its flames. Dispersed.. The choice, to rebel the graceful fierce "no" carved into the fabric of causality lingered as a lasting barely perceptible twist in the nearby principles of thermodynamics—a point where entropy appeared just a bit hesitant.
It originated from the Bearers. Not from their visions, which had faded into the sea of Aethel. From their decision. The decision to endure. That decision, taken in an instant of exhaustion and supreme bravery had transformed into a lasting aspect of metaphysical truth. Evidence that endurance was achievable. That a strain could be maintained. It was a cornerstone, in the structure of being, enabling areas of maintained "un-serenity."
The tale of Belphegor, the Indolent, the weight of the abyss concluded without resolution. It concluded with a heritage.
The universal inclination remained aimed at stillness at balance at the release known as the Quiet. Belphegor, the force of ultimate sleep held dominion.
Yet life—not the biological function, but the essence of unrest yearning and the exquisite imperfect evolution that humanity had cultivated and propagated—was the tender, persistent magnificent sleeplessness, at its core.
The cosmos gravitated towards rest.
Yet inside life represented the dream it never ceased to experience. A dream of towers. A dream of inquiries. A dream of protected prey. Looks toward the stars. A dream of a love exact it hurt. A dream aware it was a dream and cherished the dreaming regardless.
The tapping wasn't a plea for release. It was the noise of the dream shifting in its slumber. A restrained strain, envisioning a form. A flicker of "perhaps", within the amen."
Inside the silent cathedral the benches stood vacant as the hymn came to an end.
Within the entryway a solitary recalled tone lingered in the atmosphere.
Down, in the cellar a horticulturist cared for a luminous moss that posed quiet inquiries.
Outside there was a angry candle that despite its extinguished flame had left a lasting smoke mark on the glass.
The Idle One reclines.
The vision it nurtures—the vision of struggle of sorrow of affection of the magnificent human clamor—does not.
There is a knock.
Softly.
Persistently.
Forever.