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Bron had been born and raised in Seddarn. He'd never left town in his long life. And now, he was going to die there.
As he drifted around the borders of feverish sleep, his eyes found little purchase in the plain bedroom. It was ‘decorated’ in the old style of the first colonists, which is to say, barely decorated at all. There was the bed with uneven lumps that pressed into all the wrong parts of his back, a simple side table with a few small trinkets sitting on it, and a closet which held more memories than clothes. A stale breeze whistled languidly against the shutters, rusted hinges protecting him from a premature burial of dust.
The only break in the monotony of the dark walls was a single pictureframe. In it, there was a painting of the Arcadia of which the colonists had dreamed. Typical Old Earth traditionalists, Bron thought. All greens and blues. He certainly wasn't going to live to see that world now. For the final sight he was ever going to see, the fiction in the painting would have to do. Fatigue weighed heavy on his eyelids, and his mind wandered to thoughts of the stranger…
He had first caught a glimpse of her some two weeks back, before he’d become so ill. He was out on his regular walk, a slow lap of town, steadily spiralling out towards the abandoned homesteads that stuck out like ragged wounds into the Sembi Desert. A quick glance up at the knife-edge ridge of Mount Alon was enough to make him pause.
She was a thin, pale figure, no more than a white speck at this distance, and yet Bron was certain that she was no trick of the light. He knew that it defied all logic, that no one could survive out there long enough to reach the foot of the mountain, let alone scale its near-vertical face. Yet there she stood. Unmoving. And with a creeping dread, he realised that she was staring directly at him. He shivered despite the dry heat and turned to shuffle away with uncharacteristic hurry. He didn't finish his rounds, opting instead for the more direct route back home. He saw no one else that day, and that was just fine by him.
Rolling back to consciousness, Bron cursed his luck. Hearing him now, Fiss would’ve chided him, reminding him that superstition was a child’s luxury on a planet like Frontier. Oh, Fiss…
If Fiss had been here now, Bron would have proclaimed that the pale stranger was an ill omen, or that she’d bewitched him with her gaze, or that it was all because he’d taken the stairs in thirteen strides instead of twelve that morning. In return, Fiss would’ve let out that dry gunshot of a laugh and told him he was finally going mad.
What he would’ve given to see Fiss again, to see her eyes twinkle as he told one of his nonsense stories of the Oracle of Halting or the Sea of Memory.
But she was gone. They were all gone, now. This town that had raised him had left him alone.
Another memory resurfaced then. This was a day or two before he’d become bedridden. He had stuttered his way down the main street in search of a grocery store, or maybe just someone to talk to. Where he remembered a bustling marketplace, he found only a lifeless road to nowhere. The tenants of the old shop units had long-since moved on from Frontier, one way or the other, and the young rabble who called themselves ‘the Future of Frontier’ had hastily converted them into warehouses. As if there’d ever be any goods to store, Bron thought.
It was as he walked past the Arcadia Monument that he glimpsed a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He had almost forgotten about the figure on the mountain, but he was once again struck with a profound unease. Looking around frantically, a fleeting sight of pale skin and a paler dress was all the evidence he had that his old mind wasn't playing tricks on him. And was that…? He thought there might be something familiar, a scent from his childhood perhaps, but as he tried to pin it down, it was already slipping through the cracks. The strange woman had gone, leaving the merest impression in her wake, but something in him would not let it go.
Now less steady on his feet than ever, Bron moved as fast as his legs would carry him in the direction that she might have come from. Careering round a corner, he almost ran into a young person carrying a crate in their arms. Bron came to an abrupt stop and let out a huff of exhaustion and disappointment, his knees shaking. The youngster looked at him with bemusement, which only served to sour his own manner.
‘Hey!’ Bron snapped, more forcefully than he’d intended, taking a breath to relax before continuing more calmly. ‘Did you see a stranger come by here just now?’
They somehow managed to look sympathetic, but the smirk they were holding back still made it to their eyes.
‘Stranger? Now, I see you, sir, and I don't mind saying you're passing strange yourself, but there’s never been a newcomer in Seddarn in all my days.’
Bron’s first thought was to point out to the cheeky youth that he’d lived considerably more days than they had. Knowing that that sort of talk wouldn't serve anyone, he instead turned to go home, waving a vaguely dismissive hand over his shoulder. Probably thinking he was just a lonely old man, the youngster called after him.
‘Hey now, sir, don’t you worry. The Future-folk’ll be off to rejoin the galaxy real soon, then before long we’ll have regular supply deliveries, and drones so as we don’t have to do all the work around here anymore!’
‘And there won’t be any people left here to care,’ Bron muttered to himself.
Memories roiling now within his dimming consciousness, Bron recalled the times when things had been simpler, happier. His childhood, amusing and delighting the other kids with the impossible things he dreamt up. Fiss, who secretly believed him, deep down, he hoped. His parents… Well, he didn’t remember his parents.
All he’d ever known was a town that cared for its own, young and old alike. A town where people were neighbours, where they laboured together. People kept their eyes on the ground, on Frontier, not on the strange stars out there. Life had been hard, but it had been good.
Where had that town gone? Bron was dying, sure, but Seddarn wasn’t far behind. Everyone he’d cared for was dead, and everyone else had forgotten him. The ‘Future-folk’ would leave on their glorious adventure, and when they came back — if they came back — they would find nothing but dust and forgotten ruins. Relics left in history’s wake. Like Bron.
If only I could have–
No. Never mind.
As Bron lay there, now simply contemplating how it would end, the door drifted open, as if pushed by a breath of air. He hadn't heard her climb the stairs, which should have creaked at every step. He wasn't sure he had even seen her come in. But there she stood at the foot of his bed. The floor beneath her sagged ever so slightly, out of habit really, because there was no real weight being put on it. Perhaps it was delirium, but Bron was sure she was… not glowing, exactly, but brighter. Her pale features and fluid, white dress were clearly visible in the otherwise gloomy room. He realised with some puzzlement that she was smiling.
Bron couldn't help being set at ease by the figure’s peaceful expression and dimly familiar appearance. Far from the fear he'd felt when he'd first seen her, a feeling now washed over him; a profound sense of acceptance of the end. It was his time.
The figure raised a slender arm and pointed at Bron’s bedside table. At first, he followed her gaze and was confused. There wasn't anything important that she could be pointing at. He looked back up at her. His confusion must have been visible on his face, judging by the way she tilted her head, patiently amused, still pointing. He frowned and looked to the table once more. While his attention was elsewhere, she turned towards the closet and vanished like a passing thought. And then —
He noticed the fob watch.
He remembered who he was.
He remembered me.
He picked up the watch. He pressed its crown.
And then he died.