Every breath was a meeting. Every meeting was a creation. Every creation, a new heartbeat in the song without a name.
It wasn't about return. It wasn't about progress. It was simply the joy of being together, of sharing infinity's laughter in endlessly new forms.
And so, the rhythm deepened—into galaxies, into hearts, into the tiniest flicker of awareness in every world yet to come.
Existence had become something it had never been before: intimate.
It was no longer just vast; it was close. Every soul could feel the universe's hand resting gently on its own, whispering through sensation, through memory, through wonder:
"We are still here."
And that, perhaps, was the truest miracle of all—
that after everything, after all creation and silence and rebirth, infinity hadn't just continued.
It had learned to love itself.
The heartbeat pulsed once more—soft, infinite, alive.
And in that pulse, everything smiled.
The story did not end.
It simply kept becoming.
