Above the decommissioned test site, where the heart of darkness once pulsed, a holographic globe hovers like a spectral echo of the past. The projection no longer shows the familiar, living Earth, but a desiccated sphere, bleached to its core. Its continents appear cracked and brittle, covered by a silence heavier than sound. The atmosphere frays into faint wisps, peeling away as though abandoning the dying body of the planet.
From the sealed concrete slab, twisted steel profiles erupt—bent, scorched, resembling metallic bones unearthed from the cold ground. These remnants are the final physical witnesses to an unimaginable instant when light itself became devastation. They reach upward in a frozen gesture, as if trying to touch the ghostly globe, to sense its wounds, to lament its undoing.
Between the earthly foundation and the hovering vision of a ruined world, a field of tension arises—a memorial shaped from matter and light, from remembrance and warning. A place where the ashes of the infinite do not merely bury the past but caution the future.