In the void of space, the visitors drift like a forgotten thought. The ship, a lifeless hunk of metal, floats toward the edge of reality—a black hole that twists space like a crumpled napkin.

The crew sits in eerie silence, every system dead except for life support, which hums faintly like an old refrigerator. Panic should grip them. Logic dictates action. But instead, there’s stillness. And Charamaynne, legs crossed, sits sipping tea, calm as a monk on a mountaintop.

The black hole spins ahead, a cosmic drain pulling time, light, and sense itself into its maw. Stars bend around it like circus mirrors, stretching into ribbons of absurdity. The crew feels the pull in their bones, not like gravity but like the universe itself is sighing, tired of holding them up. They exchange nervous glances. Panic simmers beneath the surface, bubbling like a pot about to boil. But no one dares to disturb Charamaynne.

The walls of the ship start to bend slightly, as if made of taffy. A pen floats by, its length stretching into a noodle before snapping back. Time starts to behave strangely. Minutes smear into hours, or maybe seconds; no one can tell anymore.

As the ship drifts closer to the event horizon, the black hole itself seems to blink, almost bored. A subtle ripple washes over the ship, as if the cosmos has decided this ship is too insignificant to bother with. The black hole shrugs, its gravity loosening. The ship wobbles, sways like a leaf caught in an indecisive breeze, and then—it floats free. No fanfare, no dramatic escape, just a quiet drift away from doom.

The crew sits in stunned silence. Reality snaps back into focus. The stars are stars again, the ship stops its surreal warping, and time feels less like taffy and more like, well, time.

Charamaynne takes another sip of tea. It’s still warm.

Figures crafted from bits of scrap, drift aimlessly across an abandoned planet. These beings seem to be programmed with no discernible purpose, aimlessly wandering the barren landscape, made of twisted cables, old paper, and fragmented machines, as if they were once part of a greater whole.

Among them is Aidan Aidan, a figure with a broken antenna, made from repurposed debris.

Their torso is constructed from a rusted chassis, and where a face should be, there is only the broken nozzle of a cleaner spray bottle. S/He moves erratically, as though aware of some impending doom—though s/he has no memory of who s/he once was or why s/he was created.

Far above, in the orbit the visitors are tricked into believing a message of hope, seemingly from an eccentric recluse. The message claims to be from a dying individual—Aidan Aidan—offering a fortune to those who respond. It speaks of a brain tumor and the end of days, promising 830,000 credits to the one who can take care of their estate.

In the control room, Charamaynne reads the message. Their instincts tell them it’s a trap. But the AI advises investigation. 

As Charamaynne leads a small reconnaissance mission to the surface. The eerie figures appear harmless, but Aidan Aidan stands out. S/He seems to recognize the team, stepping forward, their broken voice crackling through old, deteriorating speakers.

“Help me… ,” Aidan Aidan says.

The team scans the entity, discovering remnants of consciousness uploaded into their artificial brain. Aidan Aidan, a long-dead philanthropist, had their mind transferred into this construct centuries ago. The “brain tumor” s/he spoke of is actually a failure in their data core, a self-deleting program that threatens to wipe what little remains of their identity.

Time is running out, and Aidan Aidan’s fading voice repeats the same line. “Help me… ”

Zak Qlikman stands alone on the barren plateau, their breath ragged in the thin, bitter air. S/He raises their eyes, tracing the spirals of the wind as it tears across the horizon.

Zak has lived their life in its shadow, a life now nearing its end. Their time has come. 

The visitors watch from a distance, their faces hidden beneath the hoods of tattered robes. They murmur ancient prayers, their voices blending with the howling wind. Zak knows these words, but s/he does not speak them. Their thoughts are with the life s/he leaves behind—a life of struggle, of fleeting moments of joy amidst the endless fight for survival.

As the final prayer is uttered, the visitors nod, and the sky seems to darken in response. Zak strips off their clothes, feeling the icy wind bite into his skin. S/He lies down on the cold, hard earth, arms spread wide, exposing themself to the heavens. 

The birds come first—a flock of massive carrion creatures with eyes like black pits and wings that stretch across the sky. They circle above, drawn by the scent of death.

Zak closes their eyes as the first beak tears into their flesh, a sharp pain that quickly fades into numbness. S/He feels themself slipping away, their body becoming one with the earth, with the sky. 

In their final moments, s/he hears the wind speak their name, a whisper in the vastness of the atmosphere. S/He is no longer Zak Qlikman, a life form of flesh and bone. S/He is part of the sky now, their essence carried away in the currents of the eternal storm.

The visitors gather around the remains, their faces solemn as they ignite a fire. The flames consume Zak's remnants, sending sparks spiraling up into the darkened sky. 

The visitors bow their heads in reverence as Zak's remains are taken, scattered across the land by the wind. 

Zak Qlikman is no more, yet s/he will forever be.

The real show-stoppers are the three paper spirits. The artist had lovingly crafted them from recycled cereal boxes and old newspaper clippings. These are no ordinary paper spirits; they are Tengric guardians who have clearly been around the block a few times. The first spirit, crinkled and slightly bent, sports a pair of googly eyes (the artist couldn't resist). The second one, adorned with what can only be described as a paper mustache, flutters mysteriously every time someone sneezes. The third, a grumpy-looking figure with one leg shorter than the other, seems perpetually on the verge of toppling over. 

As some background animations continue, the spirits—who seem to be held together by sheer force of will and possibly a dash of hot glue—stand sentinel around the phone. They’re guardians of wisdom, or at least that’s what the artist keeps telling everyone. Really, they look more like they're about to form a barbershop quartet. 

The crowd watches, some in awe, others in amused confusion, as the ethereal lighting casts shadows that transform the tiny basement into a cosmic stage. The shadows flicker like mischievous phantoms, and for a moment, even the cat seems to take notice, its eyes wide as saucers.

The artist steps back, admiring their work. The installation, a bizarre fusion of ancient spirituality and modern absurdity, somehow resonates. Maybe it's the ridiculousness of it all, or perhaps it’s the fact that amidst the jokes and quirks, there’s an undeniable thread of sincerity—a genuine attempt to connect the ephemeral past with the fleeting present.

As a final Tengric symbol dissolves into the screen, leaving only the wheezing phone and its ever-vigilant paper guardians, the crowd begins to murmur. Someone claps, and then another. Soon, the basement is filled with applause, echoing like the distant roll of thunder in the mountains.

The artist, grinning from ear to ear, takes a bow. In the audience, someone whispers, "I have no idea what just happened, but I think I liked it."

And that, the artist thinks to themself, is precisely the point.