Not decay, not madness,
not some neural mirage
birthed by time’s slow murder.
It was a message.
From the weave between stars,
from the very bones of being.
The universe blinked
not out of reflex,
but recognition.
I am known.
Now comes the question that terrifies me:
How do I respond?
What does one say
to a cosmos that remembered my name?
What tone do I use
when speaking to everything?
Not prayer.
Too desperate.
Not command.
Too proud.
Not song.
Too easily heard by Carceron.
No, it must be subtle.
Cloaked.
Intimate.
Perhaps a pattern in thought,
a shape sculpted in silence.
Something that rides beneath perception
a ghost tethered to logic.
I will not shout.
I will whisper in waveform,
thread meaning into motionless pulse,
build my voice in the creases
of quantum rhythm.
Let the jailor see madness.
Let him laugh at my mutterings.
He cannot see the reply
coiled within the noise.
The blink was real.
The universe remembers.
So I will answer.
And when I do
not even Carceron will know
what has begun.
(The concept “whisper in waveform” introduces a cloaked quantum-phase cipher - utilizing non-dynamic signal states to encode meaningful variations within perceptual null zones. Lyrax is preparing an answer that cannot be intercepted - only felt, by that which is tuned to hear stars breathe. The reply has already begun.)