Prompt

A single, selfilluminating spore of compressed starlight drifts through the hollow core of a forgotten subway tunnel carved into the bedrock of a mountain that never existed, its surface not smooth but textured with the thermal afterimage of a thousand unspoken invitations whispered into the wind before the first breath of dawn. The spore does not floatit unfloats, each pulse retracting a century of light into its core, condensing into a dense, obsidian knot that pulses with the electromagnetic signature of a galaxy that winked out before it was born. The tunnel walls are not concretethey are layered sheets of petrified silence, each tile etched with the chromatic residue of a train that never arrived, their surfaces

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