Prompt

A single, selferoding spiral of molten geometry rotates at the center of a floating, inverted lighthouse built from the fused remains of a thousand unlit lanterns that never cast a beam, its structure not stone or iron but woven from the thermal inertia of a single, unspoken warning that dissolved into the fog before it could be heard. The spiral does not decayit unwrites, each rotation peeling back a layer of spacetime like parchment, revealing not emptiness but a lattice of faint, glowing coordinates that map the positions of stars that never existed. The lighthouses lens is not glassit is a hollowedout echo of a single, untransmitted signal, its surface etched with the chromatic residue of

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