Its remembered presence was no evidence of it ever existing. That’s the nature of gone things, eroded stone, clouds blown over the horizon, dear dead aunts who once bought ice cream and kissed your cheek with their wet red lipstick.
The end began with static between locations. Between big cities in the east, and still coherent sputniks, some strays, having left the galaxy. The frequencies of physics, without half-lives, decaying like leaves.
It had come out of the Virginia swamps, cool and slow with plenty of precision, with a back beat narrow and hard to master. Then it vanished with faith and other species, failing the dial and the luminescence, your tires and transmission on the midnight American prairie. Angry at the quiet, you slapped the dashboard and your Virgin fell onto the floor.
And the hits didn’t keep coming.