W J S M

Elara looked at the shattered window, the floating letters, the man she loved being eaten alive by a future ghost. And she made a choice.

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

“Wake word for what?”

“It’s not a message,” he whispered. “It’s a signature .”

Three dots appeared. Then: WJSM.

And somewhere in a galaxy no telescope will ever find, a supernova dimmed one last time, blinked out, and became the first period of a sentence no one had started yet.

She turned to the letters, took a breath, and said, clearly and deliberately: “WJSM.”