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It was not a grand, explosive rebirth. It was a slow, patient dawn. The kind that takes geological ages to brighten from black to deepest red. But Leo watched it, century by century, millennium by millennium, as the little star at his edge began, impossibly, to glow.

“And you weren’t invited,” Ember finished.

“I’m never invited. I’m too big. Too slow. Merging with me would be like… like a mayfly trying to merge with a mountain. The timescales don’t match. Their event horizons would touch mine, and they’d be inside before they even registered the invitation.”

Leo’s accretion disk flickered. “I can’t.”

His only companion was a single, stubborn white dwarf he had captured two billion years ago. He hadn’t meant to. The little star had simply wandered too close, and Leo’s gravity, patient as the tide, had pulled it into a slow, decaying orbit. He called it Ember.

“I don’t sigh,” Leo rumbled, his voice the subsonic groan of spacetime itself. “I oscillate.”

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