Prompt

A single, selfreplicating nebula of liquid ink floats in the center of a vast, rotating void composed entirely of solidified breaths from a civilization that communicated through the scent of unburned paper. The nebula does not expandit contracts, folding inward with each pulse like a forgotten story being rewritten in reverse, its tendrils shaped like the negative space between two hands holding a book that never opened. The void is not emptyit is a thick, viscous medium of unspilled ink, each ripple revealing the ghostly outline of a sentence that was almost written, glowing with the faint, pulsing afterimage of a signature that never appeared. The ink is not blackit is a shifting gradient of deep indigo

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