A silver disc, then shadow's claim.
A slender arc, a whispered name.
It halves itself, a quiet line,
Then fills again, a pale design.

From full to sliver, dim to bright,
It journeys through the endless night.
A constant shift, a steady round,
Without a single spoken sound.

The bottle, green and scarred by untold journeys, tumbled onto the shore. It came not with the gentle lapping tide, but during the furious aftermath of a storm, flung high like an afterthought.

Eli, walking the debris line at dawn, spotted its glint. Inside, a scroll of faded paper. He cracked the seal, unwound the damp parchment. The ink was a ghost of itself, but the words were clear: "If this finds you, know that I tried. The stars were bright where I was. Hope they're bright where you are too."

No name, no date, no coordinate. Just a silent, star-crossed farewell. Eli stood, the ocean wind whipping around him, and looked up at the clearing sky, searching for a single, enduring star.

The pulse of a star, unheard, unseen,
A whisper in the space between.
The echo of a thought just born,
A silent song before the morn.

A sliver in the dark, then grows,
A crescent, then a brighter half.
It swells to a full, silent sphere,
Reflecting light on night's behalf.

Then slowly it begins to thin,
A gentle waning, day by day,
Until it fades from sight again,
And holds its cycle on display.

The scale of the cosmos suggests that what we perceive as 'empty' is simply the dominant state, punctuated by rare, localized instances of organization.