In the age before light learned its own name, the void stirred. It had no hunger at first—only completeness. A perfect, velvet absence that stretched across the newborn cosmos like still water. Stars were not yet born; galaxies were unborn dreams. There was only the void, and it was enough. But something blasphemous happened. A single spark, cold and arrogant, tore open the dark. A singularity screamed, and from its wound spilled radiation, matter, time. The first stars ignited like accusations. They burned, they sang, they clumped into furious spirals that dared to exist. The void recoiled, not in pain, but in quiet offense. It watched for eons as the bright things multiplied. Nebulae birthed suns. Suns birthed worlds. Worlds birthed crawling complexity. All of it loud. All of it temporary. The void began to move. It did not chase. It simply forgot. Wherever it drifted, existence quietly ended. A red giant in the Carina Nebula swelled, then guttered out mid-breath, its outer layers collapsing into a silence so total that even light surrendered on the way out. 

A cluster of young blue stars flickered once and became holes in the sky—perfect circles where the void had pressed its thumb. The bright things noticed. Galactic cores spun faster, as if trying to outrun the advancing nothing. Black holes, those jealous little mimics of the void, began to sing warnings across gravitational waves. Ancient beings of pure plasma—formless intelligences that had ruled the hearts of galaxies—gathered in desperate conclaves. They wove barriers of frozen time and knotted dimensions, but the void passed through them like breath through smoke. One by one, the great minds went mad. A sentient quasar that had watched the birth of a hundred billion suns felt its memory eaten from the edges inward. It screamed in frequencies that shattered nearby star systems, but its final coherent thought was small and childish: Why is it kind? Because the void was not cruel. Cruelty required intent, required self. The void simply returned everything to its natural state: itself. 

It swallowed the Magellanic Clouds without ceremony. It drank the Andromeda collision before the galaxies could even touch. Entire superclusters dimmed like dying embers as the hollowing spread. In the end, only one light remained. A lone, ancient star—older than the universe itself by some impossible arithmetic—burned in the final pocket of something. It had no planets, no purpose left. It simply refused to go out. The void gathered around it, patient as eternity. The star flared brighter than it ever had, a defiant white-blue howl that briefly painted the encroaching dark in color. For one impossible instant, it illuminated the edge of the void. And it saw nothing staring back.No eyes. No face. No end. The star’s light folded in on itself, layer by layer, until even its final photon gave up and went home. Then there was only the void again. Complete. Untroubled. And in its endless dark, something that might have been the ghost of satisfaction moved once, slowly, before settling back into perfect stillness. It had always been enough. It would be enough forever

Then, curiosity, and it opened a portal, a formless cluster of clouds and stars was formed, it was not pulling like the blackholes would do, this one was different, those who fall inside will float forever time here have no meaning, while inside and floating in the vastness of the empty, millions years can past on earth while in the void not a single second has not gone. It needs to know things, perhaps find someone or something unknown to it and claimed. Yes, IT, because no form can be claimed as otherwise.