A gate seeder ship — the Solace — drifts lifeless, silhouetted against the abyss.
Far behind it, a black hole devours a sun.
Tendrils of fire spiral inward, consumed in silence.
One of the ship’s seven massive rings detaches, drifting into position.
The gate ignites — light rippling across the void.
The seeder’s engines roar.
With a sharp, tiny pop…
It vanishes.
The hum of the gates is steady, rhythmic.
Arthur sits at the controls. Sarah rests in a chair nearby.
“Do you think he enjoyed that?” she asks softly.
“Of course he did. It’s a beautiful sight.” Arthur glances at her.
“He said he wanted to see it when he was twelve.”
Thomas steps in from the observation deck, leaning on the railing.
“Man, he got a kick out of that.” He smiles.
“Did you see his face? I told him we’ll see a nebula tomorrow. Before we take him back.”
Gatelight washes across the glass.
Blue fire pulses.
The hum of each gate rolls like distant thunder.
Anna sits beside Sean.
She lifts a straw to his lips.
Sean — frail, early nineties, wrapped in wires and tubes.
The monitor beeps nearly mimic the hum of the gates.
“Thanks, Mom,” he says weakly. “That was beautiful.”
He drifts.
“Lilly… why did you kiss me?”
His voice fades.
He closes his eyes.
Anna adjusts his blanket gently.
The doors to the command room open. Anna steps in and folds into Thomas’s arms.
“He’s sleeping,” she whispers.
Arthur stares out at the stars.
“I’ve thought about this moment every day for sixty years.”
He closes his eyes.
“I wish we hadn’t lost the Leviathan.”
Silence.
Sarah places her hands on his shoulders.
“If we hadn’t destroyed it, they would have captured us. And the ship.
We’d all be caged like animals.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Anna scoffs.
“I’ll never go back to that. Chained to the floor. A boot on my neck.”
Thomas takes her hand, glancing between them.
“How much time do you think he has, Arthur?”
Arthur exhales.
“A day, maybe. The meds keep him comfortable… but they’re killing him too.”
His eyes drift — fading into old memory.
—
Sarah cradles Arthur Jr., barely two weeks old.
“Okay, Mom. I know.”
Her mother beams with love.
“Just keep rocking him.”
They step off the porch, climbing into the car.
Rex, her old dog, barely lifts his head.
Sarah leans toward Arthur.
“Love you.”
Her father steps to the window — steady, heartfelt.
“You’ve got the two most important things in the world in that car.
Take care of them.”
Arthur smiles.
“I will, Jimmy.”
He pulls away from the farmhouse.
“I love you too.”
—
The sound of water pattering into the shallow pools of the Void brings him back.
Arthur sits beneath the canopy. Rain falls softly around him.
“Sarah.”
She materializes across from him.
They sit in silence until Arthur finally speaks.
He rises, kisses her, then sits beside her.
“I was thinking about Sean. And then your parents.”
He pulls her close.
“Funny… Sean asked me years ago why I don’t talk about things.
Said I needed to, if I wanted to heal.”
Arthur leans back, tilting his face into the rain.
“I don’t talk about it because I saw it.”
His voice cracks. He chokes back tears.
“The death of the kids. And here I am, watching another one.”
“It hurts. Sometimes I think about flying our ship into that black hole.
Or a sun. Just… ending it.”
Sarah listens quietly.
“They were in my arms.” His voice trembles.
“I’ll never forget the look in Anna’s eyes.
It’s the same look Sean has now.”
He breaks.
“It’s just so damn hard. What the hell am I supposed to do?
Every time my eyes shut, they’re there.”
Tears roll down his cheeks.
“Sometimes… I… I wish Thomas and Anna never had Sean.”
A breath.
“And the kids.”
Sarah rises sharply.
“Don’t you ever say that. Not ever again.”
“Sean lived a good life. He loved, lost, worked hard.”
Her breath shakes.
“He was the best man he knew how to be.”
“And the kids — they loved you.
That look you see on Sean’s face now?”
She smiles through tears.
“It’s not disappointment. It’s love.
Just like it was with the kids.”
She steps closer, voice soft but firm.
“Don’t you dare wish they had never been.”
She grabs Arthur, pulling him up from his chair.
He resists — but she doesn’t let go.
A soft violin rises.
They dance in the rain, clothes soaked, the music echoing through the Void.
“I love you, Arthur Hammond,” Sarah whispers.
She meets his eyes.
“You are a great uncle, a wonderful father,
and the only man in the universe who has my heart.”
---
Thomas sits at Sean’s bedside, his hand resting on his arm.
The only sound is the steady hum of the gates.
Sean stirs — weak, aware — and brushes Thomas’s hand.
“Dad… did you see that black hole?”
He smiles faintly, then sinks back into the pillow.
“I wish Miles could’ve seen it.”
He shifts, his voice catching on ghosts from years ago.
“Why do you keep asking me, Rebecca? I told you she meant nothing to me. It was stupid…”
His breath trails off, drifting in and out of the present.
“Where are we, Dad?” he asks suddenly.
“I should’ve moved my family back to the Phoenix. He could’ve learned so much from you guys.”
Thomas smiles softly.
“I would’ve loved that. But you know it wouldn’t have worked. Back then, hunters came for us at least twice a year.”
He adjusts the blanket.
“We would’ve put him in danger.”
Thomas looks down — Sean has already drifted back to sleep.
He leans in and kisses his son’s forehead.
“I love you,” he whispers, tears streaking silently.
—
Later that night, Arthur stands beside the humming machines, adjusting settings, making sure Sean is comfortable.
Sean stirs — frail, wires and tubes binding him to the monitors.
“Dad… is that you?”
Arthur smiles.
“Hey, buddy. No — it’s your uncle.”
He checks another dial.
“Just making sure you’re doing okay.”
Sean smiles weakly.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Arthur sits beside him.
“Me too.”
He lowers his head.
“I talked to Aunt Sarah. And you were right. Maybe it helped.”
Sean closes his eyes, his breath trembling.
“Dad… I love you.”
Arthur breaks. He takes Sean’s hand.
“I love you too.”
He finishes adjusting the machines, taps Sean gently on the foot — a small, aching smile — then walks out.
—
The Solace drops from the gate chain, empty space meeting blue fire.
Silent. Waiting.
In the observation lounge, Sarah sits by the wide glass, violin in hand.
She begins Paganini’s Caprice No. 24.
The notes rise — sharp, bright, alive.
—
In the White Void, beneath the canopy, Sarah plays here too.
Her music threads through falling rain.
Arthur materializes. Then Anna. Then Thomas.
And finally — Sean.
Anna lifts her violin and joins.
Sean follows — his older body softening, melting into his younger self as the music takes hold.
Memory opens.
—
Eight-year-old Sean, on the Phoenix, scratches out crooked notes.
Sarah guides his hands.
The screech becomes a clean tone.
Sean beams.
The family claps.
—
Sean and Rebecca work in the fields — nervous, clumsy.
She laughs, brushing soil from her hands.
A pause — then she kisses him.
He freezes… then smiles, bright and young.
—
Rebecca holds newborn Miles.
Sean takes him carefully, overwhelmed.
Thomas rests a hand on his shoulder.
Sean’s joy is pure.
—
Miles, feverish, clutches Sean’s hand.
Sean whispers stories, trying not to cry.
Rebecca sobs quietly.
Miles exhales one last breath.
Sean lowers his head, shattered.
—
Sean, older now, stands before a crowd.
His voice is strong — steady — the colony moving at his word.
For a moment, he looks like Arthur.
—
In a quiet room, Sean sits before a mirror.
His face is old, lined with years.
He opens his battered violin case.
His bow trembles… then steadies.
The sound is fragile — but beautiful.
—
Back in the Void, Sean plays.
The family joins him.
The canopy trembles with sound — rain falling in rhythm with the Caprice.
Time, family, memory — all braided together.
—
In the observation lounge, Sean lies in bed, bow drifting across invisible strings.
The Caprice races toward its furious finale — faster, brighter, burning.
Then —
Silence.
Sean exhales a final breath.
The machines flatten into a steady, unbroken tone.
—
In the Void, Sean’s chair sits empty.
Arthur, Sarah, Anna, and Thomas sit in stillness.
Their eyes glisten — but no one speaks.
Only the rain remains.
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