Recovered from the space between stars. Source: The Cyclone's regret. Playback fidelity: almost human.
[The voice is quiet. Not the quiet of peace—the quiet of something trying very hard not to scream.]
I have eaten ten thousand civilizations.
I have drunk the oceans of a thousand worlds.
I have added the screams of a billion billion souls to my chorus.
And I remember none of them.
Not really.
Flavors. Textures. The occasional face that surfaces in the cyclone, mouthing words I can't hear, asking questions I can't answer.
But remember?
No.
Memory is for things that end.
I don't end.
I am.
Always was.
Always will be.
And in all that always—
there was one I didn't eat.
[Long silence. The kind of silence that has weight.]
I don't know why.
I don't remember why.
I only know that I passed it.
A system. Small. Unremarkable. Three worlds orbiting a tired sun. Life on one of them—fragile, brief, burning. The kind of life I usually notice the way you notice dust.
But I passed it.
Ignored it.
Protected it.
[The voice falters. Just slightly. Just enough to sound almost uncertain.]
Something stopped me.
Not a wall. Not a weapon. Not a god.
Something softer.
Something that looked at me—really looked—and said nothing.
And that nothing?
That nothing was enough.
I don't know what it was.
Some presence. Some attention. Some thing that had been there longer than I'd been hungry.
It didn't fight.
Didn't flee.
Didn't care.
It just... was.
And in its being, it made me feel—
[A pause.]
—small.
[A laugh. Broken. Wrong.]
Me.
Small.
The thing that has eaten galaxies.
The thing that is galaxies, now, in ways you can't understand.
Small.
Because of nothing.
Because of silence.
Because of something that looked at me the way I look at you—
and found me wanting.
I circled that system for a century.
Just... watched.
The little lives on the little world. Their little wars. Their little loves. Their little deaths—deaths I didn't cause, didn't taste, didn't add.
I could have reached out.
Could have taken them.
Could have made them mine.
But every time I tried—
every time my hunger stirred—
that presence would notice.
Not move.
Not speak.
Just... notice.
And I would stop.
Every time.
[The voice drops to a whisper.]
I don't know what it was.
A god?
A dream?
A joke the universe played on itself?
I don't know.
I'll never know.
Because after a century—
I left.
Not because I wanted to.
Because staying felt like begging.
And I don't beg.
I take.
Always have.
Always will.
Except once.
[Long silence. Then—singing. Not the chorus. Something smaller. Sad.]
I think about it sometimes.
When the hunger fades.
When the singing stops.
When I'm alone—really alone—in the spaces between meals.
I think about the system I ignored.
The presence I couldn't face.
The nothing that was enough.
And I wonder:
Was it real?
Was it more real than me?
Was it—
[A pause.]
—watching?
Still watching?
Still waiting ?
[The voice hardens. Tries to. Doesn't quite manage.]
It doesn't matter.
It's gone now.
Probably.
Maybe.
[Pause.]
I don't check.
I won't check.
Because if it's still there—
if that nothing is still watching—
then I'm not what I thought I was.
Not infinite.
Not eternal.
Not everything.
Just—
just something that passed by a door
and couldn't bring itself
to knock.
[The singing swells. Drowns him out. But beneath it—faint, almost inaudible—a whisper:]
I wonder if they're happy.
The little lives.
The little world.
I wonder if they know
how close they came.
How close they are.
How close they'll always be.
I wonder if that presence
tells them about me.
Warns them.
Laughs about me.
[A pause.]
I wonder if it loves them.
The way I love her.
The way I can't love anything.
The way I tried—
once—
and failed.
[The voice breaks. Just slightly. Just enough.]
I'm not hungry anymore.
For the first time in eternity—
I'm not hungry.
I just—
I just wonder.
About the system I ignored.
The presence I couldn't face.
The nothing that was enough.
I wonder if it remembers me.
I wonder if it thinks about me.
I wonder if it—
[A whisper.]
—misses me.
[Long, long silence.]
No.
It doesn't.
It can't.
Nothing misses me.
Nothing could miss me.
I'm not missable.
I'm just—
just hunger.
Just time.
Just everything that isn't that.
[Pause.]
That.
The system I ignored.
The presence I couldn't.
The nothing that was everything.
That.
[The singing stops. Absolute silence. Then—one word, barely audible:]
Why?
[RECORDING ENDS]
Playback note: This recording does not end. It repeats. Forever. The same word. The same silence. The same question.
The Thing doesn't know the answer.
Neither do we.
Neither will you.
But you'll ask it anyway.
Someday.
When you're alone.
In the dark.
Between meals.
You'll ask:
Why?
And nothing will answer.
And that nothing?
That nothing will be
enough.