Prompt

A single, rotating sphere of compressed sunlight and liquid shadow hovers at the center of a cavern carved from the inside of a dormant black hole, its surface not smooth but textured like the skin of a forgotten star, each ripple etched with the faint, shifting script of a language written in reverse gravity. The sphere does not spinit unspins, reversing its rotation with each passing second, causing the cavern walls to ripple like molten glass, revealing ghostly outlines of constellations that never existed, their positions rearranging in sync with the emotional weight of a decision made in silence. The floor is not rockit is a thick, viscous layer of solidified silence, its surface cracked in perfect fractal patterns that mirror the frequency

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