Flyleaf

I met Them on the blank page of a novel after the final period marked the last word of the protagonist's existence. There was peace in the empty parchment untarnished by tragedy, the grief of love, or the burden of decision. Every end begins with the flyleaf.

They sat beside me, Their figure cloaked in an umber colour, toned by remnants of inky raindrops and oily finger smudges; the essence of a well-lived life. They wore my vestiges with the grace of an emperor. My hand extended to Them, to feel the textured pages between my fingertips once more, but I refrained, lest I mar the legacy.

“What is the value of human life?” They asked.

I followed Their eyeless gaze across the stony beach, stretching over the endless ocean to feel the burning yellow iris containing a hungry void in its pit staring me down from across the universe.

Judgement.

“The value of human life is greater than the entirety of life from within Earth’s oceans, and the many who preceded them, and the planet who bore them.”

“Them?”

Not us. The wording left a sweet aftertaste on my tongue, a sugary thread of truth usually obscured by the bitter murk of the conscious and unconscious. In Their company, my many facets formed a whole being. I’d never felt as present as I did now.

“I’m not human anymore.”

Liberation.

A rumble of agreement sounded from my mouthless companion. “Then what is the value of your life?”

“If I were human, I would argue that something which no longer exists still holds value, but only as experienced by, or as influential to, those who remain. This is critically biased with a human-centric lens. My life is no more, therefore holds no value. I may serve no purpose to the universe.”

The golden iris burned a hole through the galaxies, carving a treacherous tunnel where the silent cries of the betrayed could swim through time to drown before me. There the eye sat on the horizon, not to judge, but instead for myself and it to be witnesses as we each turned the backing flyleaf.

“Why am I seeing this? Is observing the demise of Earth a punishment, suggesting that even as I am, I’m still human?”

A deep yearning and melancholy drenched the air, yet They did not sink like I did.

“What is the purpose of your life?” They asked.

I leaned back to gaze at the sky, committed to my duty. “Death cannot exist without life. The purpose of my life was, is, to bear witness to the unwritten story on the flyleaf at the end of the story.”

I admired Their disguised anonymity and Their peaceful protest as chaos ripped the sky. They remained eternal in the face of transience. They smelled like the musty pages of a well-worn book, touched by the many.

Familiarity.

“I’ve reconsidered,” I said. “The value of my life is immeasurable. Your very being is touched by my life. My fingerprint is left on you, just as every other lifeform colours you. You are a collection of everything. You hold me, just as you hold Earth and all its creatures in your fiber.”

They reframed their question for what I sensed was the final time. “What is the purpose of life with immeasurable value?”

“To create more life of immeasurable value. Every end begins with the flyleaf, and every new beginning follows the flyleaf. I was a mere curator of books, I could never understand They who curate life.”

“None ever have, nor will they ever. It is not the purpose of life with immeasurable value to understand, only to be.”

Minutes passed as we watched the black stone at the centre of the iris flash into a blinding explosion, its reverberations rolling across the stars, consuming everything in its path.

Clarity.

“You speak like me, so I believe you have assumed some of my character. You were right; I misunderstood you. I would like to correct my earlier wording. The purpose is to allow for the creation of more life with immeasurable value. Not through procreation, but through you. The curator is also a creator. They who curate life of immeasurable value create life of immeasurable value from the vestiges which are collected. You have assumed some of my character, as I assumed the character of those who came before me, which are part of your very being. Therefore… we are one and the same.”

Despite my certainty, I recalled Their statement that none would ever come to understand Them.

“I will never come to know you, which might mean I could never come to know myself. It is a shame I will not come to meet you again until the next flyleaf, to begin a new story.”

“You may know something, but never understand it. Until next time.”

They invited me to turn the flyleaf. Finally, I caressed the grainy page between my fingers, but not for the final time.

“Until next time.”

Witnessing the unwritten story in the flyleaf was like greeting an old friend.