In the endless void of space, a black hole waits. It does not speak, nor does it move with intent, yet its presence is absolute. A silent abyss, it bends the very fabric of reality around itself, a shadow in the cosmos where even light dares not linger.

Stars drift too close, their brilliant forms stretching and twisting before vanishing beyond the event horizon—swallowed not with violence, but with an eerie inevitability. Time itself slows near its edge, as if the universe hesitates in reverence before the unknown.

Despite its hunger, the black hole does not seek or chase. It simply exists, a cosmic enigma whose presence is felt in the warping of starlight, the pull of invisible forces, the quiet unraveling of all that dares to enter. It is neither cruel nor kind, neither alive nor dead—only a patient void, waiting without expectation, marking the silent pulse of the universe.