And then, the star died.

And then, the star died. 

It had been a long time coming and it knew it, but when the end came, it was still a shock. All those hundreds of millennia gone, in a moment of blinding glory. Its neighbors were obliterated as were the bright creatures upon them. The star was heartbroken, for they had shown such promise. It lamented its helplessness to stop their erasure. 

And then the star thought. IT thought; how could it do that if it was dead? (Let alone that it is a star.) Across eons of our time (but mere moments to the star) it was still existing, but also changing.

When a star dies it has a unique opportunity before it. It ceases to be what it was; it is no longer a warm, life giving thing. But, it doesn’t cease being. The potential paths before it are myriad and astonishing. 

Its remainder of gases and metals could be far flung and reused in another star or even, in the making of biological life.  Its core could be left, after much compression, as a super dense neutron star - a star that revolves rapidly and screams furiously at the night. Or even it could become the most mysterious of interstellar objects, a black hole - a seeming tear in space and time that forever draws anything caught in its gravity well towards its gaping maw.

So how had our star continued its cognizance? How was it reborn? 

The former light giver had become a nebula: a birthing ground for stars. Formed from its remnants, this colorful stellar womb held within its wispy tendrils the seeds for new astral lights. The star had become a parent for a new generation of cosmic luminaries. 

Our star was happy again, for each of these new stars held the potential for their own neighbors. For intelligent creatures with promise. And eventually, something else entirely.