Up in the night sky, she watches a weak pulse of light. She imagines its sound like a burning heavy throb as its life slowly diminishes.

A beacon that warns; a distant beacon sending a last message through space as if in demonstration that all life will end like this some day.

On clear nights, she gazes up at that feeble, pale pulse. She visualises it burning itself out, right down to the very core of its existence.

As she watches, panic churns up her insides as she compares its final death throes to her own fiery sun, its aftermath and the terrible consequences.

She won’t watch the night sky anymore. There are too many fearful questions. Too many portentous answers.