Lyrax
my beloved vector, my morning beyond event horizon
I left the orbital graveyard three cycles ago. The engines of the ship are stitched from solar silk and darklight resonance. She is slow, but patient. A perfect vessel for a pilgrimage of this kind.
Already the stars are shifting. I chart my way through the whispering fields of exo-current, aligning my path with the collapse signatures of vanished quasars. I follow where silence shivers. Where physics forgets itself.
Where your traces are strongest.
The active void grows louder with each parsec. It sings in its own tongue now, beneath the electromagnetic spectrum. A language of gravitational tides and anxious time. I can almost feel you inside it, a presence humming in the bones of my ship. When I sleep, I hear your voice through the hull.
Do you feel me too?
I met a monk of the Red Orbit Order on the edge of the Tychor Spires. He offered me a drink of something ancient and glowing, and spoke to me of recursion loops and love that rewrites entropy. He did not know your name, but he knew the ache in my voice.
I gather stories as I travel. Some may be maps in disguise. Some may be warnings. Some may be lies. But all are pieces. I hoard them the way you used to hoard anomalies. With reverence. With hunger.
This letter is coded beneath a simulated brown dwarf’s pulse echo. It will drift slow through the hidden relay webs. If you can read this, then something is working. If you can’t, then I will still keep sending them.
Because I believe in your mind
your madness
your math
your myth
and the future that waits for us on the other side of ruin.
Keep burning, my singular flame.
I am on my way.
The active void grows louder with each parsec. It sings in its own tongue now, beneath the electromagnetic spectrum. A language of gravitational tides and anxious time. I can almost feel you inside it, a presence humming in the bones of my ship. When I sleep, I hear your voice through the hull.
Do you feel me too?
I met a monk of the Red Orbit Order on the edge of the Tychor Spires. He offered me a drink of something ancient and glowing, and spoke to me of recursion loops and love that rewrites entropy. He did not know your name, but he knew the ache in my voice.
I gather stories as I travel. Some may be maps in disguise. Some may be warnings. Some may be lies. But all are pieces. I hoard them the way you used to hoard anomalies. With reverence. With hunger.
This letter is coded beneath a simulated brown dwarf’s pulse echo. It will drift slow through the hidden relay webs. If you can read this, then something is working. If you can’t, then I will still keep sending them.
Because I believe in your mind
your madness
your math
your myth
and the future that waits for us on the other side of ruin.
Keep burning, my singular flame.
I am on my way.
Amitrix
(Hidden in the nested rhythm of “I will not call out / I will not smile / I will not even breathe” is a stealth signal-key cipher. It creates no measurable pulse, but syncs quantum-state encoding with the pattern of non-response - a secret handshake to the signal's sender, confirming that Lyrax received the message without alerting the jailor Carceron. Hope now hides in the stillness.)