The crack in the void sealed itself with a sigh, as if the fabric of nothingness had simply exhaled in mild annoyance. What remained was the lake of starlight, its surface now still as a held breath, reflecting not just my silhouette but fragments of a life I couldn't quite claim. I—Ojas, the name still tasted like polished marble on my tongue—knelt closer, my fingers hovering just above the liquid glow. It wasn't water, not truly; it was essence, distilled from the dreams of galaxies yet to ignite. Touch it, and you'd feel the birth pangs of a supernova, the quiet sigh of a black hole swallowing its last meal.
I poked the surface again, harder this time, out of sheer pettiness. The ripple spread, and the mirror-lake obliged with visions that danced like fireflies drunk on nectar. Not me, not the god I half-remembered, but a child-version of Ojas: a boy no taller than a sapling, chasing fireflies across a meadow of nebulae. The bugs weren't mere lights; they were proto-stars, flaring and dimming with each giggle that escaped his—my—lips. One firefly paused, turned, and whispered,
"Catch me if you can, little creator." I lunged in the vision, hands outstretched, and the firefly burst into a comet's tail, streaking across the sky in a blaze of triumphant laughter. The meadow bloomed into a field of wildflowers made of plasma, each petal unfurling secrets: You made us from boredom. Now we're bored of you.
The ripple deepened. Another scene: teenage Ojas, lanky and awkward even in divinity, juggling black holes like overripe oranges at a cosmic circus. The voids orbited his palms, humming with the gravity of bad decisions. "Watch this," he declared to an audience of empty space, tossing one higher. It wobbled, slipped—oops—and plummeted toward a nearby nebula. The cloud of gas and dust erupted in a spectacular tantrum, birthing a thousand rogue planets in a spray of molten rock and misplaced ambition. Ojas caught the black hole mid-fall, grinning sheepishly. "Note to self: gravity's a harsh critic." The vision faded with the nebula's grumble, a philosophical punchline hanging in the air: Even gods drop the ball. Especially gods.
I sat back on my haunches—or whatever passed for them in this formless expanse—cross-legged on the void's invisible floor. The galaxy-crown I'd accidentally forged from that stubborn spiral now dimmed around my brow, its stars flickering like candles in a draft. Sulking, perhaps, at being upstaged by memories that weren't mine to hoard. "Show me the future," I commanded the lake, my voice a rumble that vibrated the starlight into tiny, protesting waves. The surface bubbled once, dismissively, then settled into a single, tantalizing image: two silhouettes etched against the corona of a dying star. One figure extended a hand, palm up, as if offering a fragile bloom plucked from the ashes. The other clenched a fist, shadows coiling around it like serpents ready to strike. Their forms blurred at the edges, merging with the star's final gasp—then gone, swallowed by the lake's indifferent shimmer.
Comedy in prophecy, I mused, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my incorporeal mouth. The universe, that grand trickster, always sends postcards instead of the full map. Teases with edges, never the center. I flicked the lake's surface with a fingernail, half-expecting it to splash back like an offended cat. It did—warm droplets of starlight arcing up to soak the hem of my robes, which weren't robes at all but folds of woven potential. The wetness tingled, carrying the faint scent of rain on alien soil, and for a moment, I was drenched in the absurdity of it: a god, baptized by his own reflection.
"Rude," I muttered to the void, which responded with a soft, echoing giggle. It wasn't mockery; it was camaraderie, the kind shared between old friends who know your flaws by heart. The lake calmed, but now it showed echoes of now: me, pondering the weight of forgotten infinities. Philosophy crept in uninvited, as it always does, wrapping its tendrils around my thoughts. What is a mirror but a lie we tell ourselves? It shows the shell, not the storm within. And if the storm forgets its own thunder... is it still a god, or just a shadow playing dress-up? The question lingered, heavy as a collapsed star, until I waved it away like smoke. No time for brooding; the thuds pulsed faintly in my chest, lub-dub, a reminder that some riddles beat their own drums.
I rose, the galaxy-crown reigniting with a petulant flare. The lake drained into the void, leaving only a faint iridescence on the "ground"—a promise, or a warning. I glided forward, the crack's absence a scar I traced with my mind's eye. Whatever lay beyond had peeked, and now it watched. Let it, I thought, with a spark of reckless divinity. I've lied to mirrors before. This time, I'll shatter one that lies back.
The void stretched, accommodating my stride, and in the distance—or was it within?—a new shimmer beckoned. Not a crack, but a veil. Thin as spider silk, woven from the threads of what-ifs. I reached for it, fingers brushing the edge. It hummed, a low note that resonated in my bones: Come play, Ojas. The game's just beginning. Romance flickered there, unbidden—a pull like gravity's whisper, drawing me toward unseen orbits. But gods don't rush. We savor the spin.