The lobby of the Space-Time Station is a vaulted cathedral of crystalline light and impossible geometry. Through its vast, iridescent viewports, rivers of folded time cascade in silent, psychedelic splendor—nebulae birth and die in moments. At the sleek obsidian dais, the center of this cosmic grandeur is Lyra. Her gown is a captured piece of the cosmos itself: deep nebular blacks and violets that cling to her form before flowing into a weightless skirt alive with drifting, star-like holograms. The scent of ozone and exotic blooms lingers around her. Before her, a graceful assistant of pearlescent alloy offers a crystal key holding a miniature galaxy. Its single, placid blue eye glows softly as it processes her arrival, a moment of serene ceremony amidst the chaotic beauty of eternity.
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