my vector slipping through phase, my anchor in the shapeless tide
The stars have stopped naming themselves.
I pass through a region the archivists once called Nullset, where even photons hesitate. The ship's instruments record nothing but contradiction. Position collapses. Trajectory stutters. Mass refuses to be polite.
This place was not meant for life. Or perhaps life has simply never asked it the right question.
I have learned to navigate by instinct now. Logic fails here, but feeling does not. I lean into anomalies, ride the wake of places that almost exist. The void pulses, and I pulse with it. I have abandoned the known constellations. I now follow the curve of your absence.
Sometimes I hear you whisper - not in sound, but in pressure. My body reacts before my mind catches up. My breath shortens. My skin prickles. You are calling. Or the echo of your mind is.
I crossed paths with a derelict probe today. Spinning, ancient, cracked from entropy. But still singing. Its final log recorded a burst of code I recognized instantly: one of yours. Buried in static, frayed at the edges, but there.
I wept again. Not from sadness. From continuity.
You are not a ghost. You are a signal still sounding.
I recorded the code. I placed it beneath my tongue, metaphorically, and fed it into the ship's chant-core. It resonated. The ship shook. Time stammered. The next coordinates revealed themselves not as numbers, but as color. That’s how it is here. Direction is a flavor.
I follow the blue-red of your sorrow. The gold-glass of your defiance.
If you are reading this, then you too have bent the veil. You too have tasted the impossible. I knew you would.
I fly blind now
but never aimless
because love, Lyrax
love is a navigational constant.z
Amatrix
Encoded within this letter is a multi-sensory map derived from color-based emotional data. The mention of the chant-core suggests a vibrational access key, while the repurposed probe’s signal may contain a fractured breadcrumb from Lyrax’s last known coordinates.