Dr. Aris Thorne listened. Not in the jungle, but through it.

  His remote lab was an antenna aimed at cosmic whispers.

  Exile, self-imposed, had followed Professor Albright’s voice booming across the symposium hall:

  "Cosmic ghosts, Dr. Thorne? Pure signal noise! A child’s fantasy!"

  The laughter had burned, costing him his tenure, his reputation. It had cost him Elena.

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  Her final plea haunted the quiet hum of the lab:

  “Aris, this obsession… it doesn't lead anywhere good. Some doors shouldn't be opened.”

  He needed proof!, proof that would silence Albright, silence the doubts, silence her fearful wisdom.

  This suffocating green silence was his crucible.