Phraxis sat at the last funeral to ever be held.

Of the four ancient, deathbound humans she had spoken to at the funeral of Freddie, Austen had been the only one other than Professor Hoon who had initially agreed to an interview. However, despite much correspondence, their schedules had never lined up. Austen had wanted some time to grieve, after the death of Freddie, and then Juanita, and then the others, or she had been away, or busy writing, or this, or that. Phraxis had in fact managed to interview Carlos and Juanita in the end - despite their original refusal. This meant that she had interviewed three of the last four people ever to die, but not the actual last.

All the same, Austen Hensely had kept in touch with her; they had exchanged emails, and Phraxis had sent her some thoughts as to interview topics, and then, when Austen had shown an interest, she had sent drafts of articles, pieces of writing she had not felt ready to publish, even short pieces of fiction. She had known the poet mostly through those emails; supportive, enthusiastic, ready to help someone just because they asked.

The young woman looked around at the other mourners. They seemingly came from every conceivable walk of life; of all races, creeds, sexes, ages, arranged in quiet arcs around where the celebrant spoke. Austen had touched many other lives too, it seemed.

“Her poetry,” the celebrant was saying, “had a way of coming to you. Of touching on things that were important to you as a person, so that you felt reached out to. And that is what so many of us will remember Austen for - the reaching out, the being so ready to listen and share in your perceptions, your views, your emotions.” They leant forward to rest their arms down on the dias. “She found the positivity in things, so often; and she strongly felt the your joys with you, as well as strongly sharing in your sorrows. We’ll miss her words, her companionship, her empathy.”

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A little later, Phraxis wandered through the wake, recognising no one and feeling a little lost. Other young people stood in small groups, sipping drinks and talking quietly and unhurriedly. She saw Samuel Shem, the son of Abraham Shem, the sixth-to-last human to die; she recognised him from photos Carlos had shown her. She thought about going over to introduce herself, but he seemed engaged talking to another. That was OK, she would find him a little later.

Eventually, she sat down on her own to think. Her time passed in this reflection, neither wasted nor spent. Some writing was coming to her; perhaps the closing words of an interview she would never conduct, or words from poems that would never be written.

There would always be uncertainty, she thought. This had always been clear; and call she had received from Carlos De Leon, years before, had only solidified this for her. There’s a problem with Eterna, he had said, sounding half manic. Find someone to fix it. She had done that, she and Sebastian Hoon and clever people Chae-Won had taught to be brilliant.

But even through the uncertainty, there was hope. Hope that through all the loss, there might be constancy; points of light, points of view, that lit up the flickering things around them. Phraxis looked out at those gathered together to mark the passing of death, and she knew what she had to do.

There were creatures, ideas, times, places, suns and stars that would not last - and she would find them, she alongside her children, alongside the friends that she would discover. She would find these passing things, these sunsets, these mayfiles and spoken words, and she would love them. She would love them; and she would mourn them - forever, and forever, and forever.

It had been a while. The young woman stood up, stretched, and went to talk to someone new.