A rusted rocket lay on its side overlooking a sea of wildflowers. Faded graffiti spelled "LOVE" across its hull. An adolescent girl sat atop the relic, bare feet swinging as sunlight warmed her skin. The breeze carried the sweet scent of blooms, both familiar and strange.
She surveyed the landscape. Flowers of every hue carpeted the earth, swaying in the wind. In the distance, crumbling city remnants peeked through the floral sea, hinting at what once was. To the east, a radio telescope's worn skeletal frame pierced the sky—her favorite place to observe this ever-changing world.
A subtle shimmer rippled across the field, like a living heat haze. Tiny machines danced, nearly imperceptible, captivating her.
She pulled a small, worn journal from her pocket, its pages held observations, sketches, and fragments of information from old books and inexplicable memories. "Hail Mary" in large letters was scrawled across one page, accompanied by rough sketches of tiny machines and question marks.
An iridescent blue butterfly landed on a nearby flower. She marveled at the tiny machines' creation of such beauty. Its wings shimmered in the sunlight, showcasing their precision.
She sketched the butterfly, adding it to her collection of observed life forms. As she drew, she pondered the history she had pieced together. The Hail Mary project—was it humanity's final effort to save Earth? She couldn't be certain. Her journal held more questions than answers: nanobots, climate repair, pollution cleanup—all concepts she struggled to fully grasp. Had the plan succeeded? Failed? Or was it ongoing? And why were there no others like her?
As the sun rose, the girl climbed down from atop the rocket. She stepped into soft earth, crushing petals and releasing their scent. She smiled as the crushed flowers slowly straightened, mending themselves. The air shimmered intensely around the repaired plants, then faded.
She knelt to examine the soil. Tiny machines danced in the sunlight, weaving through roots and leaves. She wondered about the magnitude of their work reshaping the world. Each day brought new creations.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
The girl wandered through the flower field, occasionally examining a new plant or insect. She paused at a babbling brook, kneeling beside its bank. The water was clear, unlike the murky streams in her old books. As she cupped her hands to scoop a drink, she noticed tiny fish darting between submerged plants. Their movements were precise, efficient, and beautifully lifelike—a testament to the tiny machines' remarkable craftsmanship.
"Hello, little ones," she said softly.
She continued walking and noticed a bird plucking berries from a bush. Did these re-created creatures really need to eat, or were the tiny machines just blindly simulating all aspects of the old world, including foraging and consuming food? She watched the bird fly away, wondering if its hunger was another intricate simulation.
As the day wore on, she arrived at the base of the old radio telescope. She climbed partway up the rusted structure and settled into a familiar nook. The flower fields stretched to the horizon, broken by the occasional ruin or stand of newly created trees. From this vantage, she sensed the machines tirelessly rebuilding the world and wondered if they had a grand design.
The setting sun painted the sky orange and pink as she climbed down and returned to the rocket. Inside the hollow shell, she’d created a cozy nest. Soft grasses and flower petals lined her sleeping nook. Shelves of salvaged materials held her collection of treasures: interesting rocks, old technology bits, and peculiar mechanical parts. Fading light filtered through the open hatch, casting a glow on her journal as she began to write.
"Day 1,825 (I think). The tiny machines amaze me. Today I saw them repair flowers I crushed. The butterfly I observed had wings of impossible perfection. I keep discovering new life forms, but I wonder about the purpose behind it all. Are they following some plan, or just running old algorithms like robots? Are they rebuilding the old world or creating something entirely new? How much of what I see is a re-creation of what once was, and how much is their own invention?"
She sketched the butterfly again, focusing on the intricate, overly perfect wing patterns. An unexpected thought came to her.
Had they rebuilt her too, piece by piece, like the butterfly’s wings? And if so, what was she now?
She shook her head, pushing the notion aside. A question for another day. She closed the journal and lay back, gazing at the first stars peeking through the rocket's open hatch. Tomorrow would bring new discoveries to observe and new life to document.
She couldn’t wait!