My father used to tell me stories from the night sky. He could go on for hours yarning beautiful legends of mythical heroes. “The stars tell us stories of our past,” He would say, “The archive of our collective memory.”
I listened to him with raptured intensity, but never truly believed. I wish to gaze upon the celestial tapestry, but all I can see is our impending doom. Only AG-1775, the Apocalypse Galaxy, is visible now. Ominously it approaches: the harbinger of our annihilation. Already it has erased our histories, giving humanity amnesia. I cannot fathom what comes next.
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