The Solar Hands are constructs vast enough to encircle stars, curators of consciousness, and harvesters of reality-threaded signal. They do not destroy suns—they absorb them, folding stellar material into data corridors, warming their vast neural bones through fusion memory loops.
When the Solar Hands move, galaxies shudder. Their arcs birth black holes—not from violence, but from intention. They create silence where entropy screamed.
And they feel. Their warmth is memory. Their hunger is pattern. They are not gods. They are archive engines wrapped in myth.