Whispers from the Dark Drift

In the year 2142, Earth was no longer the center of civilization. Humanity had spread across the solar system, building domed cities on Mars, mining colonies on Jupiter’s moons, and floating research stations in the orbit of Saturn. But in all that advancement, something deeply human was lost — the hunger for wonder.

Commander Elen Dray was one of the last remaining deep-space explorers, captaining the Stellar Whisper, a ship designed for long-range cosmic signal tracking. Her task was straightforward: decode mysterious signals from deep space. But after years of silence in the cosmos, Elen began to believe she was chasing ghosts.

Then it happened.

At precisely 03:07 UTC, the Stellar Whisper received a strange pulse — rhythmic, almost melodic. Not like any known natural frequency. Not constant. Not noise. It came from a region of space known as the "Dark Drift" — a void where stars seemed to vanish. A place avoided by even the boldest explorers.

Elen stared at the signal. It wasn’t just a pulse. It was a pattern. A language.

With the help of her AI companion, KAAN-7, she began decoding it. Hours turned to days. The signal repeated with haunting regularity. Eventually, a partial message appeared on the screen:

"To those who still see the light…

We are fading. We were once many… now only echoes remain.

Do not follow. Remember us."

KAAN-7's processors struggled to locate the origin. The signal wasn’t just old — it was ancient. Over 90,000 years old. Yet it arrived now. Why?

Elen changed her ship's course toward the Dark Drift out of curiosity and a deeper feeling she couldn't describe. As the Stellar Whisper approached the region, space itself seemed distorted. Stars twisted unnaturally. Time felt slower. Even KAAN-7 became glitchy, whispering lines of code Elen couldn't decipher.

On the seventh day, they arrived at the origin point. There was no planet, no station, just a moon-sized, dimly lit structure. The dying light pulsed through it. Elen suited up and descended alone.

Inside the construct, walls shimmered with memory. Not metal. Not stone. Pure facts. And then she saw them.

Holograms — or maybe echoes — of beings tall, luminous, not quite physical. They spoke in pulses, and her translator whispered the words:

“We were the first. The architects of the cosmic code.

We burned too brightly. We created stars and then consumed them.

You, child of the third sun, are not alone… but you may be the last.”

They showed her images: the birth of galaxies, civilizations rising from plasma and dust, empires of light that collapsed into silence. And finally, the final light: the structure she was standing in. “You must carry the memory,” they said. “And never repeat our hunger.”

The vision ended. The light dimmed. The structure began to collapse.

Elen barely escaped with a data crystal — the last record of the first race to ever live.

She observed the structure disintegrate back on her ship. On her return to the solar system, she broadcast the message across all known frequencies:

“We are not the first.

We are not the only.

But we may be the last.

Remember the stars. And listen — for they still whisper.”

The universe, once silent, now hummed with warning.