She cast away her given name after the third worm-gate stole it from her, for the heavens ever demand a toll of those who wander too far.
The nomad fared alone among the stars in a ship old as a prayer, its boards and plates bound by oath more than craft. She sought no fixed haven, nor reckoned her course by chart or star. Rather, she hearkened. For the wormholes spake softly, where the firmament grew thin and the world was folded upon itself like worn vellum.
To pass through such a gate was no simple journey, but a sundering and a mending. Flesh went whole, yet the soul lagged, gathering itself as one waking from a dream not wholly one’s own. Oft she lost her hours; at times she gained remembrances of fires she had never warmed her hands by.
Once, within the turning dark, time knelt as a servant. Then she knew this truth: the wormholes were confessions, wounds in the sky where the cosmos owned its frailty.
She came forth into a dead realm, where planets wheeled by ancient habit alone. No voice called. No ruin answered. Only motion endured, faithful and unthinking. She stilled her engines and abode there awhile, a lone witness to a vast and breathless hush.
And it was given to her understanding that she did not wander the heavens. The heavens wandered through her. Each crossing made her more hollow, yet more fit to bear what could find no rest.
At the last, she turned her prow toward another rift in the dark. Fear had fallen from her like an outworn cloak.
For somewhere beyond the fold, a memory waited, and she was its keeper.
Dashboard
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