The Last Sleeper
The figure was small.
Huddled in the corner of the cryogenic bay, knees drawn to chest, arms wrapped around legs, head bowed. Its clothes were torn, its skin was pale, its hair was matted. It looked like it had been there for a very long time.
Mira approached slowly.
Her flashlight illuminated the figure’s face.
A woman. Young. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Pale skin.
The woman from her dream.
“Help me,” the woman whispered. “Please. Help me.”
Mira knelt in front of her.
“What’s your name?”
The woman looked up.
Her eyes were silver.
“Elara.”
Mira’s blood went cold.
“Elara? The first dreamer?”
The woman shook her head.
“Not the first. The second. I came after. I tried to close the door.”
“What happened?”
Elara looked at the open pods.
At the empty cryogenic bay.
At the darkness beyond.
“The sleepers woke. The song took them. The hunger consumed them. I was the only one left.”
“You’ve been here alone?”
“Not alone. The signal was with me. The song was with me. The hunger was with me.”
“For how long?”
Elara was silent for a long moment.
“I don’t know. Time has no meaning here.”
Mira helped her stand.
Her legs were weak.
Her hands were cold.
“The door,” Mira said. “Is it still open?”
Elara nodded.
“It never closed. I tried. I failed. The first dreamer tried. She failed. The hunger is patient.”
“Then we’ll close it together.”
Elara looked at her.
Her silver eyes were wet.
“You don’t understand. The door cannot be closed. Not from this side. Not from any side.”
“Then what do we do?”
Elara took her hands.
“We become the door.”
They brought Elara back to the Odyssey.
The medics examined her. The engineers scanned her. The crew stared at her.
She did not speak.
She did not eat.
She did not sleep.
She simply sat in the corner of the medical bay, her silver eyes fixed on nothing, her lips moving in silent song.
Mira sat with her.
“The song is still inside you,” Mira said.
Elara nodded.
“It never leaves. It only waits.”
“What is it waiting for?”
Elara looked at her.
“For you.”
That night, Mira dreamed.
She was standing in the darkness again. The door was before her — massive and black, its surface pulsing with silver light, its symbols burning like eyes.
It was open.
Beyond the door was light.
Not silver. Not golden. Not red.
White.
Pure and bright and cold.
And in the center of the light, a figure.
Her grandmother.
The first dreamer.
“Hello, Mira,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”