And so, life continued—not in perfect harmony, but in living rhythm.
The universe learned to breathe with its creations. Worlds rose and fell, species came and went, but the melody endured. It echoed in laughter, in sorrow, in discovery. It was in the hush of rain before it touched the earth, in the silence between two heartbeats, in the warmth of hands held across generations.
Civilizations built stories upon the old tune, not realizing they were singing it. They gave it new names—hope, purpose, love, faith—but it was all the same song, reframed in new voices.
Some tried to capture it. Scholars studied it. Priests preached it. Artists painted it. None could hold it for long, because the song wasn't meant to be owned—it was meant to be lived.
Even the stars, old and weary, carried the rhythm in their fading light. When they finally dimmed, the darkness that followed was never empty; it hummed softly, the residue of everything they had ever sung.
