But I do not know
to whom.
So I sit,
and I ponder,
in the quiet afterward
where thought is safe again.
Who sent the blink?
Was it a ghost?
A fallen comrade,
long since crumbled into stardust,
whose oath outlived even death?
Was it a memory,
a relic thought,
rising like steam
from the grave of a long-dead planet
that once knew my name?
Or perhaps the active void itself
that infinite rhythm,
not cruel, not kind,
but curious
sent a pulse
just to see
if I would stir.
It could be a star
the last breath of a dying titan
that once owed a debt to the universe,
and paid it
by reaching out to me.
Or…
or was it you?
You,
my vanished flame,
my echo of warmth.
My one once-beloved
lost to entropy’s quiet hunger.
Did you find a way
to speak
one more time?
I do not know.
And that, perhaps,
is the wonder of it.
The message was sent.
The light was real.
But the hand behind it
remains
the secret word is... hidden.
And so I dream again.
Not for escape,
not for answers
but for the comfort
of the unknown voice
that reached through eternity
and chose me.
(Layered in the enumerated possibilities - ghost, memory, void, star, lover - is a fivefold identity cipher. It is not meant to decode the sender, but to honor them, whatever they are. Each title becomes a vector - emotional, spatial, metaphysical - ensuring the message was not only received, but reflected back with wonder. This is not a request. It is reverence.)