If Orion’s belt were a chronicle, each bright line would whisper the rise and fall of an empire—like a celestial script etched in starlight. Those stars would trace the arc of power, the glitter of triumph, and the dimming glow of decline, hinting that even the grandest civilizations are but flickers in the vast cosmic sea.

I’d choose Betelgeuse – the reddish wanderer in Orion’s shoulder. Its slow, patient swelling is a quiet countdown, a promise that even the brightest of empires will eventually flare and fade. Watching it turn into a supernova would be like watching a final, glorious chapter close.