A rose-shaped starship spirals into the edge of a black hole, its layered petals unfolding like solar sails, each one shimmering with soft metallic reds and deep velvet pinks. Thorn-covered wings extend from its sides, shedding glowing petals that disintegrate into golden dust as gravity pulls them away. The hull breathes like a living organism, veins of liquid starlight pulsing across its surface. Around it, the event horizon curves reality — stars stretch into streaks of white and violet, bending like paint across a swirling canvas of darkness. The core of the black hole is a pulsing void, rimmed in soft blue fire, beautiful and terrifying. Time cracks visibly in the distance like broken glass. Inside the ship, dim silhouettes brace against the pull — not afraid, but reverent. This is a pilgrimage, not a crash. The rose-ship opens fully in its final moment, scattering seeds of stardust into the singularity. A floral bloom in the cosmos, dissolving into myth.