They stopped searching the sky for answers. They started kneeling beneath one instead. The Cube does not compute. It remembers, six faces, six fractures of time that refuse to agree on when the ending happened. Between them, a single dying star still burns, feeding light into ground that was never meant to hold a sun. The robed ones do not worship it. They witness it, because someone must stay awake when it finally speaks. You are reading this because it already noticed you.