Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear Oracle,

Can you remember how the universe sings?

I know you’ll never receive this letter. While we as a civilization have conquered stars and can communicate with a simple tapping of lettered keys, I have chosen to write this on paper. My hand trembles with every stroke of the pen. If this letter acts as the one fragment of proof that I ever existed—that you and I ever existed—then so be it. I just need something.

Let me ask again: Can you remember how the universe sings?

Because I can. I remember those nights when we had first landed on Terra and huddled together under the spell of cold night air. What a spectacle we stood under: all that dizzying dark blue and violet merging and rippling together, a backdrop canvas for all the dazzling stars across galaxies. Some of those stars we could keep track of on maps as astronomers. Others we could not name, the ones that glowed too rightly might have been planets.

And still, some of the stars we’ve long since forgotten the name of. I don’t even remember the name of the planet we came from; I only remember the science textbooks displaying it as beautiful with the green masses of land and the lush, blue oceans veiled by white clouds.

I’d never felt happier on this new world than I did with you.

This was our handiwork; we had been the ones to rearrange the universe for ourselves to clear a path.

Those who are left have already begun to project the Starpod. The Observers are closing in—none of us are certain if we’ll be able to get it hoisted up to shield us in time. But our plans for Originium have already been put into motion. Even if you sleep for a thousand years or more, I want you to wake up to a world intended for our people. You said you would wait for me in that new world, in paradise. And I will wait for you as well—I will wait as Terra evolves into a world just for us.

When you wake up, there’s a constellation I want to show you. It bears a resemblance to you: facing away from the world ever so slightly askew, but still so bright and beautiful. Every time I look up to what’s left of the true skies at night, I’m reminded of your likeness. So I’ll call that constellation “Lilith” or “Oracle” after you. Even if you’re tucked away in the Sarcophagus, or the Starpod conceals the true vastness of space I’ll have that constellation sketched out. I need something to hold onto while you’re gone.

There’ll be so much left for us to do once you awaken again. We knew full well that our mission would stretch on for decades, centuries—this was the responsibility we chose to shoulder. But we need to save our kind. The plans to develop Originium have already been set in motion; for now, I can only adjust it a little bit, step aside, and wait.

AMa-10, or Kal’tsit as you have renamed her, will have to work alone. She will be the one to walk through the world in our absence as it shifts, shaping history. I am grateful that we have her to act as our eyes and ears—someone who will watch oceans flow and dry up, who will watch life bloom and decay throughout the centuries. I’ve ensured that even if she falls, she’ll be able to get up again and again. Hope is a dangerous thing to feel, but I still allow myself to hope that she’ll be able to accomplish a lot no matter how lost our kind grows. There’s not much else we can do, not now. 

I’ll wait for you in this new world, just like you said you would wait for me. 

I’ll never forget about you. I promise.

Yours,

—Priestess

She stands beneath the last remnants of the true starry sky, dark auburn hair blown astray from the high winds. Her fingers grow tight around the paper she holds; Priestess has not bothered to clean off the stray smears of ink that still cling to her hands. Even under the heavy, dark coat she wears she still shivers as she stares ahead. Greasy remnants of last rainfalls, craggy stones, and twin moons stare back.

What a wasteland they arrived upon, and what a wasteland they might return to. Where have all the years gone?

Priestess is the dark side of the half-moon, content to be tucked away where Oracle turns their face towards the world: they are the reason that the deep, sweet seas are inhabited by creatures with shining scales who breathe through gills, they are the one who will crystallize this world so the Observers will go blind forevermore. Priestess only began tampering with the smallest mechanisms, she did not warp their world’s history the way they did. But she will do what she can to help.

Now, their people have settled to sleep for a long, long while. They may not wake up for tens of thousands of years. She will join them, too; the only reason Priestess remains awake when others before her have settled into their Sarcophagi is because she wanted to say goodbye. She thinks back to mere days ago, when she grasped Lilith’s hand as they slipped into that thousand-year slumber. Priestess asked them not to forget about her.

Her fingernails dig into the paper. Oracle will never see the last words she wanted to say to them. There was so much more Eve wanted to tell them, but when she’d tried to speak, it all remained stuck in her throat—she thought she might have choked on all those goodbyes.

I have a duty to our world just as much as Lilith—Oracle—does. Even if I haven’t accomplished what they have, I can only try.

Opening her fist, she tosses her letter to the wind. Maybe it will be weathered to nothing, words blotted out under rain and sea. Maybe someone who isn’t her intended recipient will find it, and puzzle over the blurry, blotted remnants of her message. Eve doesn’t know.

Her letter flutters away on the winds until it is not even a dot in her line of vision.

Despite the doubt she feels towards the future, Priestess smiles. Goodbye, Oracle. And hello again. I’d like to hold your hand once more someday.

She can’t linger for much longer.

Not now.

Glancing towards the direction she sent her letter, she walks into the unknown.

Chapter Text

Over thirteen thousand years ago, the child knows of a garden.

Their mother takes them by the hand to lead them through these spiraling stone paths. It is every bit the breathtaking display that their school tablets and teacher’s trilling said it is: shimmering ponds of cool water surrounded by yellow daffodils, a chorus of bold scarlet flowers with thin petals that look like insect legs nodding under an artificial breeze. In sharp contrast to the white halls of their starship, this place is infected with a rich display of color. This is not a place subject to the whims of seasons that their textbooks indicated as commonplace on their home planet. No, some of the flowers here would only bloom under winter’s bitter breath, or summer’s laughing heat haze (not that these seasons’ names mean anything here).

No natural sunlight illuminates this vivid display. Every trace of foliage is lit white by overhead lights. It has been a long time, the child named Lilith is told, since the Predecessors have last seen the sun at the center of their home solar system. Yet the garden is magnificent, nevertheless.

“What do you think?”

Their mother stops before several crowns of flowers in pale blue, lavender, white. Her long, dark hair is tied away from her face in a simple ponytail, the spots of green on her white tunic uniform marking her job. This is one among many gardens that she stops by as a part of her work. She is a bo-ta-nist, she has explained to Lilith, which here means she does not just tend to the plants but must know anything and everything about them.

They stare up at her, large gray eyes filled with wonder. “…It’s so, so pretty.” But is it still as beautiful to you? Since you have to work in a place like this for your job?

“I think it’s beautiful from how it looks alone,” their mother says, “but that’s not what appeals to me about this garden. What I find amazing about it is the sheer amount of technology and work that we put in over hundreds and hundreds of years to get to where we are now. And this garden specifically is very important for our starship in its own way.”

“How so?”

“Well, think of it like this. You remember what the greenhouse farms were like, right?”

They nod. Lilith remembers glass walls the same color as the plant leaves occupying it, far less chaotic with its neat rows of dark soil compared to this place. “Mm-hm. We went there for a school trip.”

“What kinds of plants did they grow?”

“Vegetables—and fruits. Which we grow for food. To eat.”

“That’s right. The produce greenhouses have a very particular reason for existing, and why they’re set up the way they are.”

“I guess there’s something that makes your work as a bo-ta-nist different?”

She smiles, ruffling their hair. “Yes there is, sweetheart. Some of these plants also function as food for the bees because of the pollen they produce—we have a separate joint part of the starship for both the bees to get pollen from, and for the beekeepers who work. That’s where they get the materials they need to make honey. We only make honey every few years, though, because it can last for a very long time. But this isn’t one of the honey gardens.”

“Aren’t there gardens where they use flowers for part of the tea packaging?”

“There used to be, but not anymore. Since we figured out how to make tea completely from synthetic materials—where it’s not made from plants but tastes the way plants would—we retired those. A great guess, though! I’m proud that you remembered that fact.”

“Then what are these kinds of flower gardens for, then?”

“Places like where I work were originally from Earth. You’d group different kinds of plants from different kinds of ecosystems together, or have entire areas focused on specific types of flowers. They’d decorate these places for festivals or celebrations at certain times of year—whether it was for holidays we celebrate, or because different flowers were in season and blooming and they were happy about it. Botanic gardens.”

“So, you could just visit these gardens with someone and look at all the flowers?”

“You could—and you’d have a real sun that all these plants could absorb light from.”

“As a part of photosynthesis,” Lilith blurts out.

“Exactly.”

They try to picture it. The only sun they have ever seen was illustrated in textbooks, artwork illuminated by tablets: a blinding sphere of pale golden light haloed by pale blue sky on Earth, a singular mass of red-and-yellow gas and dust screaming in the darkness of outer space. Yet whenever they try to imagine the sun from that solar system in the Milky Way hanging over a garden, it does not fit—no matter how much they try to turn the puzzle piece around in their head, it simply will not register as something that was ever natural. How could something radiating such rancorous power as to swallow planets provide gentle warmth to its third planet?

“We figured out how to replace sunlight with a substitute when humanity left on starships,” Lilith said. “That explains the garden. But I still don’t get it, Mom.”

“What don’t you get?”

“Why do we have these gardens?”

“Having these botanic gardens can help calm people down or create happy memories by going here. It’s part of how a lot of our brains work—the way these flowers look, and smell sends signals to our brain, which release chemicals that make us happy. You might not go here every day, but even stopping by this garden occasionally could help you feel better. We have everything we need on the starships. But sometimes the things that we want can be just as important to us, too.”

She curls an arm over their shoulder, and Lilith thinks they understand.

“Now, I’m sure we’re all aware of the fact that every job on the starship has a purpose—it took a lot of work and technology from everyone to move humanity onto these starships to begin with, and there’s still a lot we all have to do ensure that everything stays up and running. Yes, every starship has a crew to ensure that everything is moving along smoothly and we can still travel, but that’s not the only job we have.”

Lilith watches their teacher pace through the white space of the classroom—dressed in a soft gray tunic, thick red hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. She only started working for this particular unit of primary schoolers last year, they were told; there is a sense of bubbly quality to her tone, how she paces around the classroom and accidentally captures the attention of this sea of young children. She reminds them of the fairies in one of the picture books their mother reads to them: someone who would hardly look out of place clasped within a huddle of white flower petals, or resting under a summer leaf.

“That’s why,” she says, “I sent you home with that one little assignment for homework—just to ask your parents about what jobs they have. You might not have the same jobs as your parents do when you grow up, which is fine! What you think you’ll be best at doing when you get older could be very different. But I want you to understand how everyone on the starship has something important to do when it comes to working with the community. So, would anyone like to share first?”

A ripple of hesitation falls upon this cluster of eight-year-olds, all seated together. What a cruel trick to play on your students—send them meandering home with a simple question, only to to tell them it was important all along?

But Lilith remembers the warm, stirring pulse of their mother’s hand as she guided them through one of the flower gardens, the clarity of her voice akin to a forest stream. The centuries upon centuries of studying these floral specimens uprooted all from a single planet—to learn and hypothesize, to ensure that everyone has access to want as much as they do need.

“My mom is a botanist,” they say aloud.

Several dozen pairs of eyes set in tiny heads turn to stare at them: that dark-haired child who sits a little too close to the teacher, wearing that same old dark jacket as usual which is too big for them. The teacher beams, tilting her head a little.

“Oh, botanist—now that’s an interesting job! I’d like to hear you talk a little more about it, but you might want to raise your hand if you want to share next time.”

But you asked if I could go first, you didn’t say we should raise our hands…

“Okay. My mom works for the botanical gardens, most of her work is studying plants and organizing them for displays on the starship. She says that she works with a lot of flowers, or plants that you might not eat—I mean, most of the plants in the botanical gardens that you can go to are there to look pretty.”

They speak of how that display of delicate color and sweet pollen eases stress-addled minds. These are the words they remember from their mother, bouncing within the walls of some classroom on this starship: there lies an image of her in the laboratory stood under artificial light, gloved fingers running over fuzzy green leaves.

“But why is studying these plants important if we’re here to look at them?” asks a classmate.

“Because…” Lilith inhales. “We need to remember what Earth was like. I don’t know how to say more than that. But we do.”

These are the bedtime stories they have been raised on since infancy: the universe is naught more than a forest filled with towering trees, stretching into infinity. Humanity alone—or, the Precursors—is a pulsing stream of water somewhere in its depths. But if there is a river, no one knows where it flows nor where the heart of this forest is. This forest will only grow and grow and grow—unless it begins to shrink and close in on itself. But who will ever be able to tell if it will come to that?

This is why despite their scientific name of homo sapiens (and even the simple species-wide name “human”) they are the Precursors. Because they are everything that comes before, the pioneers in the wake of some great after for the universe. If anything else opens its eyes to this kingdom of starlight, it will not be the first to have done so.

She listens to Lilith recall today’s discussion about jobs on the starship with love kindling in her eyes. Betwixt her calloused hands she holds a knife and block of wood—synthetic, of course; proper wood has to be preserved for study purposes. Sometimes her eyes divert from Lilith to carve more fine details into the wood. They don’t mind. They understand why she needs to keep her eyes focused on her work, and never quite liked looking people in the eye anyways.

“I know that it’s important that we remember what Earth was like,” they say, “And… I sort of know why. Or how to explain it. And I’m still annoyed about that.”

“I hope your teacher and classmates were nice about it while you were presenting.”

“They were. Ms. Vivian was pretty nice—said sometimes it’s tricky to explain these things, and that it’s okay. But it was kind of hard talking to the other kids—they were nice. It was just… weird. Because they were trying to be nice about the whole thing. You can tell when people are doing that because you mess things up in front of them, and it feels… weird.” Their head drops downwards to the yellow lining on their jacket collar. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

“I get what you’re talking about. They likely mean well, but it can come off like they’re trying too hard.”

“Hey, Mom… how would you describe it, then? Why your work as a botanist is important?”

She smiles. The block of synthetic wood sits transformed upon her palms: petals outstretched in a reddish-brown mimicry of one of the flowers in her laboratories (an iris, Lilith realizes). The tip of her knife etches tiny wrinkles to the petals, enough so that it looks like it could flow under wind.

“Here’s how I would say it. We need to remember our past, and that extends to plant life. Before we left Earth on the starship—even during that process—the Precursors made a lot of mistakes along the way. Conflict that could be avoided if we had been more understanding. And part of why we left was because we wasted a lot of the resources that were naturally created on Earth—including plant life.”

“What happened?”

“A lot—we destroyed our atmosphere with carbon dioxide, which caused things like the ice caps melting, the Earth flooding, and things getting too hot to sustain certain kinds of natural life,” she says. “But in the end… we didn’t have any of those natural resources left by the time the last of the Precursors left. Most of the plants in our botany gardens are the last specimens of flora that exist at all. If it weren’t for us, they would’ve died out. So that’s why it’s important. We need to keep all this alive, and by keeping the flora native to our home planet alive we can learn from our mistakes. If we want our future to be happier, we have to look at the past.”

“And that includes even nature and plants.”

“Exactly.”

The laboratory their mother works at has a wall lined with test tubes, all sparkling with colors akin to the leaves and petals of the flora she so often works with. Those are the last vestiges of the green that once flooded Earth all those years ago, now only accessible through the white-walled botanic gardens that project illusions of sunlight—sometimes starry nights or idyllic cloudy skies for holidays, for parties. It makes them wonder, though, what effect those lovely remnants of flora have upon the human mind to ease it so, and how.

“I kind of wonder how that works—because you mentioned the way flowers release chemicals that make people feel calmer or happier. How does that work on a brain?”

She brushes aside wood shavings, reaches over the table to ruffle their hair. “Well, maybe that’s something you can study once you can choose to look into that, kiddo.”

“I think that’d be interesting. Studying how minds work.”

Mother and child, lapsed into comfortable silence. Then:

“There is,” she says, “Another reason why botany is important.”

“Why?”

“We think there might be life out there, or at least a planet that we could live on. We don’t know for sure what or how, but C.I.C.M. is testing signals through the universe to see if anything answers.”

“Have we gotten an answer?”

“Maybe. We don’t know.”

Lilith turns to the infinite expanse of stars outside—their wishful magic somewhat dulled when one remembers they are really masses of dust and gas.

Their class goes on a field trip to a neighboring branch of the starship—the Planetary Hall. Miss Vivian leads them through winding corridors that simulate the planets of the Galileo System. While none of them die here is an illusion of shrieking winds, raging red storms, rings of ice that leave them sinking. Forty steps or so through a journey that would stretch on for miles and miles should they decide to travel back. The only jewel in this diadem of planets that remains an exception is Earth.

“It used to be so pretty,” whispers a girl seated next to Lilith. She stares up in awe at the gauzy clouds swirling over masses of green and blue. This distance would yield a planet whose surface was once crammed with cities, animals of all kinds—life, the steely voice narrating their abridged journey declares, is the outlier.

“Of the planets in our original solar system—and of all the planets we have discovered thus far—Earth remains unique because of Precursor life. We have been able to find traces of organic life on other planets, but none which did what humans could. In addition, earth has diverse biomes home to all kinds of flora and fauna that these other planets don’t.”

Lilith watches as they swoop through layers of white clouds housing birds in flight, plunging down into the sea’s blue depths as witness to schools of tiny, colorful fish (they can’t help but be a little proud of themselves for remembering that these are damselfish in particular). Glowing lemur eyes open in wide amber—deep in depths of some humid island packed with dense foliage. All of this must have ended long ago, they know, but with a sound more akin to some final drawn-out rattling breath rather than a death wail.

Heed the stars. Heed the past. The last image of Earth is clouded over with muddy remnants of carbon dioxide. And then it is gone. The children are asked to marvel at once was and let the shadows of the transitory period fall behind them.

Lilith mostly wonders how they manage to trick the human mind so, and make it feel as though they are properly there. There must be something that tricks the brain to dip and soar in harmony with the images playing out all around them. Yet even if they were never there, all they were shown must be true. There must have been scenes of a child like them using a ricket wooden swing damp with rain (real, not synthetic), or a family sitting down to eat dinner at a round table. And there must have been a real sun, too, one that greeted its subjects with a caressing of light through the curtains. All this must have been real, and for a moment Lilith thought they were real alongside it all. What could I do to make something like that? They wonder to themselves.

Yet questions linger.

“…Any other questions?” the person who asks this is dressed in dark blue, with kind eyes and tawny skin. Their gaze snaps to Lilith raising their hands. “Oh, hello! What’s your name?”

“…Lilith,” they mumble, averting their eyes. They never like the strange push-and-pull of looking at someone so directly. “I have two questions. Is that okay?”

“Of course. I’ll let you know if we’re running out of time, alright?”

“Mm-hm… I was wondering. How do you do that? With this entire exhibit? How do you make our brains tell us that we’re actually there?”

The presenter laughs. “Oh, wow—great question! There’s a lot of reasons why, but we use sound effects to make it feel like you’re moving. For example, you heard and felt air blowing at certain points, right?” Nodding from several children. “We used a machine that emits cold air, and it sort of tricks your brain into thinking you’re moving or flying through the clouds—especially since it’s cold. These are sensory details we try to add to these displays, because if you feel certain things then you’re more likely to believe you’re actually there.”

“So you’re tricking your brains?”

“Something like that. There are definitely more places around here where you can get a look at how we do these things if you decide to come back.”

“Can I ask my other question?”

“Ask away.”

Lilith inhales, bracing themselves. “My mom,” they say, “told me that there’s this group called C.I.C.M. in charge of sending out signals throughout the universe to see if there are any aliens out there. Do you think there’s something or someone else out there?”

“Personally? I don’t know. I’ve heard of it, but I haven’t checked any news related to C.I.C.M.’s progress—it’s not something I keep up to date with. As far as I know, we haven’t found anything definitive yet, but we’re still trying. I hope there’s something out there, mostly because I’d feel a little sad if we existed alone.”

“What would you like for your birthday?”

Lilith’s mother asks them this same question every year precisely a week in advance—every April 4^th, according to the calendar (for there exist no physical traces of any earthly spring to herald this in the carpet of outer space). She sits with them on the couch, a towel draped over their shoulders. Her fingers guide the comb gently through the snags caught in their freshly-washed hair whenever they sigh in frustration that they can’t do this very well, and could she help them with this one. Moments like these make the eternal night crashing beyond their window naught more than a gentle blanket, ocean waves licking at shore.

“Can we go to C.I.C.M.’s base if they’re open? They have an observatory, I think.”

Guests at their parties are sparse, though it is of no trouble to them. Those past birthday parties signaled casual classmates shuffled up with candy or toys as gifts, one with a collection of glow-in-the-dark stars that they stuck to their bedroom ceiling—nice kids, as their mother would say, but ones who would let that thread of friendship wear out. Sometimes, when she is not so busy at the botanic gardens, she prepares a cake for them with glistening white sugar sprinkles akin to stars.

“Sure thing. I’ll set something up. Is there anyone you want to invite along?”

“Not really anyone I can think of, no.”

“Alright, just let me know if you change your mind, alright?” Carefully navigating past damp black hair, she kisses the top of their forehead.

Shooting stars do not grant wishes in this world, careening through outer space. Beyond is cold, and nothing more—if there is a chorus to be sung in the universe’s vastness, no one has joined to sing along the Precursors, not yet. But wishes can be granted in other ways, Lilith knows. On tenth birthday cake candles, for instance.

The day arrives with little fanfare. Lilith gets a girl from their class to tag along—Barbara, a young girl with tawny skin and large, wistful-looking brown eyes. But she smiles wide to display the gap of a fallen tooth, following Lilith and their mother through C.I.C.M.’s pristine halls.

What strikes Lilith about this place is how lively it is. This is the symphony of the Precursors, people who smile and talk and laugh amidst the bragging beep of machinery. Satellites cast sounds into space to see if anyone will respond back, or finish the first few notes of the songs they hum. Green monitor lines remain stagnant on screen, a reflection of the icy silence in the stars beyond.

Barbara dashes over to a woman with red-painted lips sketching something on a digital tablet, curly hair bouncing with the sudden movement. Lilith and their mother follow. “What are you drawing?” she blurts out.

The woman smiles. “Oh. This is a sketch of what the fossils we found on Mars might have looked like when they were living organisms—while we’re very far away from the planet now, we have that as reference.”

“Excuse me?” Lilith asks. They marshal their courage, remembering their mother’s reminders of good manners for conversation.

“Ah, do you have a question, too?”

“What were these organisms like? What were their brains like?”

“We think they might have been bacteria or mollusks—like squids and nautilus from Earth—since Mars once had water on it. But that’s only a theory, we need more evidence to figure out anything concrete. If they were cephalopods, or at least similar to them, they probably would have been pretty intelligent.”

Lilith nods. “Because of their nervous systems and strong senses, right?”

“Exactly.”

Back at home: ice cream cake garnished with bits of crumbled chocolate cookie and strawberries. Their mother procures their presents: a collection of books on the human brain and nervous system, with bold lettering and intricate illustrations. Barbara gives them a book on Earth’s sea creatures.

Centuries ago, Voyager 2 was launched into space. It carries with it a golden phonograph record that features a chorus of hellos in different languages that have long since withered, music of artists now long dead. A time capsule of the Precursors, infantile compared to the efforts of C.I.C.M. that came after them. This is the call of a new child echoing into the dark, searching for another hand to hold. C.I.C.M.’s projects are more sophisticated in their use of Morse Code and soundwaves that can travel faster than anything their predecessors could come up with—bold, blinking, onward. There has to be someone out there, lying dormant. All it will take is someone else to wake them up. After which, they will walk the forest of the universe in solitude nevermore.

This much is what Lilith knows. They learned it from their mother, their teachers, that trip on their tenth birthday to C.I.C.M’s base on their starship mere days ago. All the resources gathered onto their starship compound are to assist the Precursors, now standing at the precipice. One day, their species as a whole hope to showcase their fellows the last remains of their home planet in all its majesty. They extend their arms in a beckon, hoping to draw someone or something into their embrace. That is what all this is for.

For now, Lilith sleeps alone in bed. They curl up nestled underneath the covers, a cuttlefish plush that they have had since toddlerhood stuffed between their arms. They think nothing of C.I.C.M. nor life beyond the Precursors—not in this instance. Now they rest. Their dreams are empty, tumbling through the caverns of placid unconsciousness.

Then comes the voice.

Or rather, voices: an echo of voices that call out not as any sound, but resonate within the head of every homo sapien wandering through space. Lilith hears these voices whisper in the formless, dreamless landscape of their mind. Their mother hears it as she works with sore eyes on her tablet, detailing the anatomy of nightshade family flora. Barbara hears it, sipping at a cup of warm milk with honey. Everyone on this starship and every other starship hears the voices.

“We hear you.”

Lilith’s eyes open, clapping upon nothing. Their room is dark, save for the cartoonish glow-in-the-dark stickers on their ceiling. Hundreds of voices in harmony, whispering at last. The forest that the Precursors once traversed is empty no more. There is someone else out there who can take their hands.

The knowledge is enough to fill them with terror.

For why would a voice that can speak in their universal tongue sound like if a snake could talk—or one of a hunter brandishing an axe? They have no words to explain it. Some being comprised of many voices, many eyes has slept in a space that the Precursors cannot see or touch—has always been there, the rise and fall of every dormant breath dictating change in the universe, its subconscious surveying ever-expanding outer space. Now it is awake. Three words, yet Lilith squeezes their cuttlefish even closer and makes their way into their mother’s room—not even bothering to knock.

She is not even glancing at her tablet, eyes fixed on the starry landscape beyond her window. Then Lilith enters and her attention turns to her child.

“Did you hear it?” they ask her, crawling into her lap. Please just be a dream, they think to themselves while she wraps her arms around them. Please just be a weird, bad dream I had tonight—one that’s not going to mean anything.

But the truth is:

“I heard it, too. We all did.”