The Traveler and the Two Doors
The traveler came to the horizon of time, where the music of the cosmos began to fade. There were two doors.

Behind the first, the Big Rip: The song unraveled note by note. Galaxies torn from clusters, stars from galaxies, planets from stars, atoms from themselves. A long, drawn-out dissonance, every harmony shredded until silence remained.

Behind the second, Vacuum Decay: No unraveling, no suffering. Only a sudden silence, a curtain falling in an instant. The bubble swept across the stage, and the music ended without pain, without warning.

The traveler stood between the doors, listening. Neither was chosen, for the doors were far beyond the reach of mortal hands. But knowing they existed was enough — a reminder that even endings are part of continuity, and that mercy and terror are only two faces of silence.

That’s the parable: two doors at the edge of the score, one slow and tearing, one sudden and merciful.