Elara didn't stop. She played the "Sludge" kick drum, a low, subsonic thud that felt like a closing door. She crashed the "Funeral" china cymbal—a wash of decay that spiraled into white noise. She was not writing a song. She was completing the Andromeda’s final act. She was giving the silence a shape.
She hit the snare.
Elara was back in her lighthouse. Dawn bled through the salt-crusted windows. Her hands were cramped. Her eyes were wet.
