And someone else would say, “Nobody. The ship just took care of itself.”
“Ah,” Kael said. “So I’m the last one. The final candle. I burn until we arrive, and then…”
He looked at his hands. They were young, strong. The hands of a man in his thirties. But inside, he felt older. Much older. He tried to remember his life—the one before the ship. A childhood. A mother’s face. A dog. Rain on a window. etap 24
“The memories degrade after stage twelve,” he whispered. “Everything before that is… gone. I know what a dog is. I know what rain feels like. But I don’t remember ever experiencing them.”
He worked for ten hours straight, measuring pH, adjusting nitrates, repairing the drip lines. By the end, the plants looked greener. Almost hopeful. He sat down against the bulkhead, exhausted, and pulled out a small, dog-eared book from his jumpsuit pocket. He didn’t know why he carried it. He didn’t remember buying it. And someone else would say, “Nobody
He reached Hydroponic Bay 7. The lights flickered on, illuminating rows of sad, yellowing tomato plants. He knelt down, plunged his hand into the soil, and felt the dry, lifeless granules slip through his fingers.
He stood up, brushed the dirt off his knees, and walked back to his pallet to sleep. The final candle
Tomorrow, he would check Bay 8. The day after, Bay 9. He would fix what was broken. He would keep the soil alive. And when the time came, he would lie down one last time, close his eyes, and let the Odyssey arrive without him.
Kael stood up. His legs felt steady. “And what happens to me after eleven months?”