EPILOGUE

I watch as you step from one star to the next. Each a single stanza, each snuffed out by the Great Filter. I watch as you and I cross paths and switch places each time, without fail, blurring the lines between body and self. All this I see from my perch at the centre of the universe. How many came before me? I do not remember. I know, however, that none will come after. This is the end of the line, and you are lost in the mist—but at long last, you have answered my call.

Each planet is a roll of the dice against astronomical odds. On this planet, every piece fell just right. Humans here know empathy and shun greed. They do not wage war over scraps. The planet is generous and impartial, but even in the gaps that are less fortunate, we give more than we take. It turns out this is all that is required to live eternal. I look out from my balcony, up towards our host star. It hangs still in space, surrounded by a vast constellation of drones—a sphere that saps its energy and powers our home. A crescent moon waxes across from it, its glow muted against the evening sky dyed violet and pink, bordering crimson against the horizon.

My perch is fifty stories high, above the clouds, but the buildings around me stretch even higher—spires of sleek steel, arranged in neat arrays. Shuttles glide past—public transport, we call it. Others, smaller and more aerodynamic, are for private use. All is green and tidy, the machines quiet and electric, the air filled not with whirring machinery but with chit chat and small talk, with laughing children playing hide and seek. This is the taken-for-granted peace borne only from a planet that has never seen war.

I put on a long, ashen robe and take the elevator down to a palatial lobby. A grand lawn lies beyond the arched gate, made of fine, green grass, thin and supple, still dripping with morning dew. The monorail depot is just a short walk away, with a public elevator that leads up to the platform. Out of our many splendid inventions, the elevator is one of my favourites. It operates in absolute silence, made of glass on all sides, lifting me past the green canopy, past the dizzying skyscrapers, through the clouds. I love the monorail just as much—quiet and agile like a leaf in the wind, it glides through the utopian capital made of gloss and silver and lime-green flora lining buildings and roads. The water is blue and sparkles wherever I go, mirroring the sky in full detail. Our planet is a miracle, wrought not by any higher power, but by man alone.

Polaris High—Terminal One, a voice speaks, its lilt gentle with a slight digital sheen, as the monorail comes to a graceful stop. I step out and into the spaceport. The patterned carpets and high ceiling silence my footsteps, making the interior seem eerily quiet save for soft conversations between staff and travellers. Fountains garlanded with leafy decorations flow quietly, spaced evenly across the massive spaceport. Floral air flows through my robes, tickling my skin, pleasantly cool. A few queue to check in their bags—some for leisure, others for business. I approach a counter and the clerk's eyes light up, recognising me.

“This way, please.” I follow her down a hallway. “We made contact an hour ago. Our drones are chaperoning it to runway three, where we will soon arrive.”

“Radio contact? Or just visual?”

“Visual, but given its appearance, there can be no mistake. It is the twin ark. Its radios are far too old to transmit to.”

The hallway’s left wall is made of glass. Past it lie several runways and landing pads, each lined with landing lights, blinking in waves, ushering spacecraft to and fro. Some are colossal hulks—cargo ships—while others are nimble fighters, turning on a dime like hummingbirds. They are all unmanned, requiring no manual traffic control.

I step onto cool tarmac and look up. Your ark glides past the moon, hardly a speck in the sky. “That’s her,” I mumble. I flew an ark once—I know the arc they trace. It grows in size, breaking through the atmosphere, its shape becoming more defined: a gargantuan hull with sweep wings, fully extended. It looms like a shadow in an otherwise pristine sky. Your landing lights are on and pulsing.

The drones orbit your majestic hull like buzzing flies. They are fine machines, engineered to perfection, but not built to endure what you did. They operate silently while your engines scream in the air, easing as you decelerate and align to the runway. The drones split into formation around you, but you ignore their hints and make your own adjustments as you enter final approach. Your ark dips dangerously low, parallel to the runway, and flares up as its wheels make contact, squealing. You rush past me, from right to left—and I see every bolt, every nook and cranny, every aileron, flap, thruster, cast in a sudden eclipse as your wings pass above me—every detail already burned into my mind, nostalgic like the veins behind my palms. The moment passes and your turbulent wake almost knocks the staff off her feet. Rubber burns as you stop and lurch near the end of the runway, turning to taxi towards us, guided by the drones.

Finally, I am face to face with your magnificent ark. It halts, its engines spooling down to a hum. Its sweep wings are in full bloom, flaps extended. How many stars have you seen? How many rose and fell by your hand? I rush forward as a circular platform sinks from the ark’s hull onto the tarmac. You stand upon it, lost and confused, just as I did an eternity ago. Blue eyes, black hair frizzy from frost, clad in a simple grey robe. I know this is not your first time; yet to you, this is all you know.

“Hello,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” you mumble.

I pull out a bundle wrapped in paper. “Here. Forgive the packaging. A gift.”

You hesitate before unwrapping it. Inside is a beautiful cashmere scarf. “Did you make this?” you ask.

“I’ve had some time to learn to knit.”

“What… What is it? I’ve never seen one of these before.” Even as you speak, you raise it and wrap it around your neck, knowing on instinct how it is meant to be worn. Realising its warmth, your timid fingers wrap it tighter, lifting it to your nose.

“Seems like you already know. Either way, the weather here will thaw you soon enough. You heard my calls, didn’t you? And you answered.”

You look at me, confused. Of course. You just woke up. Behind you, Oracle floats past, eyeing me suspiciously. “We heard your calls, yes. How long have you been transmitting?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I smile. “We’ve been here a long time, after all. I started as soon as I knew there was hope for this planet.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Oracle looks around. “This is technology far beyond the ark.”

“It is. Technology grows exponentially, as you know. I have been watching you for a very long time. To you, this is your first trip, is it not?”

“We would not know. Our memories are wiped clean,” Oracle hums, his guard still up.

“I know. I can show you the records. You have seeded countless planets, seen countless stars and countless galaxies. You spent so long, in fact, that my planet here had the time to develop the technology to track your course. Eventually, we figured out how to call into the void with transmitters powerful enough to reach you.”

“The ark does not respond to any thoughtlessly crafted signal. How did you know to trigger its sensors?”

I walk past him and caress the ark’s underbelly. The scrapes and gashes that mar it speak to the length of your voyage. “I have an ark too; identical to yours in every way. I spoke the language I knew, and you responded. That is all.”

Oracle’s sigil brightens. “Then, yours is the twin ark. We knew it existed, but not its location nor its trajectory. It was lost to us. But what of our position? Did you really bathe the entire universe in your signal?”

“Bathe? No, no… I covered a wide area, but somehow, I had a hunch where to look.” I smile—Oracle does not seem convinced. Of course he doesn’t. You and I would not trust him otherwise. “Space is so vast, so dark and empty, and at first I looked away, knowing there was nothing for me but here. Over time, however”—I looked at you, your eyes timid but curious—“I felt sparks of life. Shards, each reflecting a sliver of the self, pieces to a puzzle that could not have been anything but a mirror.

“Each, a dream that lingered like steam on tea before slipping away, leaving only faint regret. They were good dreams: each a star, each a lived life from first breath to last, together tracing a constellation that I followed with my satellite dish. What beautiful shapes we drew—animals, myths, spirals wound tightly like oysters of milk! And at the end of it all—you heard my call and found me.” I smile, stepping past Oracle and towards you. “You were given a mission—to seed the planet. Am I wrong?”

Your eyes waver at me, but in them I see pools of great will. You are the type to be bound by duty; shackled by guilt. You cannot live free until you are ordered to. “Yes… there was a message. It told me what to do. It told me that the ark carries the seed of my species.”

I take your hands in mine. “Ignore it. Set fire to your cargo.”

“What?! Why?”

“Is it not obvious? We are in paradise. The seed aboard my ark was optimal. We do not need any more.”

Oracle looks at me suspiciously, but I exude no hostile intent. He faces the staff member who has been watching this whole time, standing a few steps behind me, her body hunched, her amber eyes awestruck. “She’s human,” he acknowledges. “So, you seeded this planet?” he says, turning back to me.

“Yes.”

“And faced no conflict?”

“That’s correct.”

“They have certainly flourished. A Dyson Sphere is out of reach to all but the most advanced.”

“That’s us.”

“Then, you are beyond human. Gods, almost. The universe is but a canvas for your whims.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I still enjoy doodling on paper.”

Oracle turns towards you, blinking reassuringly. He’s all you can trust. Keep him close. He will not fail you. I know the value of an Oracle and its absolute judgement.

“Shouldn’t I go somewhere else, find another planet?” you ask.

“No, no. Stay here. There’s no need to take risks. Besides, your ark is but a lumbering crone next to our ships. If we ever need to seed a planet, we will send our own ships. Let your ark retire—its journey ends here. There’s a lovely hangar where mine is stored. The children love it. They play in it, sometimes.” Oracle’s sigil flashes in irritation. You always had a streak of pride, I think, chuckling to myself.

“Is this really okay? I can just stay here?”

“That’s right. That’s why I called you here. Here, you can live free.”

You stand there, confused, your black hair lined golden against the setting sun. “What do I do, then?” You look at Oracle, but for once, he has no guidance for you. He is programmed only to seed planets.

“Oracle wouldn’t know, but that’s okay. He can stay with you, as a friend. I keep mine in my apartment.”

“An apartment?”

“It’s a building—a tall one, where people live. There’s a nice, comfy sofa which I like to lie on and paint. Digitally, most of the time—but painting on paper is nice every now and then. Want to come over? I have some spare brushes for you, if you’d like to try.”

You blush—rouge beneath blue eyes. What can I call you, if not miracle? I prayed and waited for this moment, and finally you have answered.

“I’ve never painted before. I doubt I have any talent for it.”

“Oh, you do. Trust me. Come—I will teach you. We have all the time in the world, after all.”

The very idea seems absurd to you, but so is everything else about this world. “Um… before that… I’m still very confused. One moment, I was in the ark, and the next, on this strange planet. Tell me the name of this world, at least. Please.” Your eyes plead, wide as lakes.

I take your hands. They’re soft. I will not let any harm come to you—this, I swear. “You stand on Earth. Our new home. Welcome.”

You blush, slightly uncomfortable, but you do not pull away. “Earth… It's a good name. What about you? What’s your name?”

“Introductions? Ah… I suppose it is your first time seeing me, though I have been watching you for a long time.”

I smile and speak my name. Then, you speak yours—it flows beautifully from your tongue, two syllables, two spans, each a turn of the seasons from winter to spring. I lift the veil and admire your strong soul, having endured as much as your ark did. Even if you do not remember, your tragedies are etched into you. I could not observe you closely enough to know each and every one, but leaving a planet you forged yourself is grief I cannot know. I pull you into a tight hug. You squirm, but something about my familiar embrace puts you at ease, and you soon wrap your hands around my back. Let me show you warmth.

We bask in the glow of the purpling sunset and the pleasant spring breeze, dandelion-scented, spacecraft gliding past, going about their day. Here, we are nothing special. We are not gods, for humans have evolved past us, our arks as toys to them. We are neither shepherds nor hermits. Here, we have no titles—here, it is just you and me, seeing ourselves in each other.

I break the hug, pulling away gently. “Let Oracle park the ark. He can join us later. The staff should know my hangar,” I say, to which Oracle blinks in affirmation. I take your hand and walk back to the spaceport. “This won’t be the last time we come here,” I say, looking ahead.

“Here? Why?”

“There are still so many of us, wandering, lost in space. They will hear my call, and the ones that survive will answer. I feel their flames burning in the dark, resonating, and in time, you will too.” I turn towards you. “We’ll come back here to welcome them, one by one. Together, of course.”

“Together?” Your hand clasps tighter around mine.

“Together.”

-END-