The green of understanding slowly deepened, swirling with the pale yellow of the shared question.
A new image began to form in their silent conversation, not a word, not a shape, but a memory.
It was a memory of a star, born in fire and fury, a brilliant, lonely point of light in an endless expanse of darkness.
The lonely consciousness was showing the lens its own birth, its first and only memory.
Anya, the bridge-builder, felt the weight of that memory, the crushing loneliness of a singular existence. ’It’s telling us its story,’ she breathed.