I came from Earth

A shard of a world drifted in the cosmic void. An island of dirt and stone suspended in stars. Earth-like trees twisted through cracks in concrete, their roots drinking from long-dead gutters. Rusted skeletons of machines lay half-buried in moss and silence. The sky above was a tapestry of forgotten constellations, unrecognizable even to those who once named them.

It was small, yet vast enough to awaken memory.

She stepped onto the soil—slender, spectral, cloaked in starlight and time. Her limbs moved like shadows cast backward through centuries, fluid and unhurried. Where she walked, silence followed, deep and reverent. Her skin, thin as frost on glass, clung tightly to her bones, and her fingers ghosted across the rusted hood of a long-dead car. Something in her touch was both blessing and farewell.

“I was born in a world of metal beasts and ruined towers,” she murmured, settling onto the trunk of a fallen tree, the bark soft with lichen. “A place with strange symbols carved in stone and echoes of old magic humming through wires. A place that no longer exists.”

Behind her, something vast stirred.

A hulking shape unfolded from shadow and starlight, wings of black and gold brushing the sky. Crooked and heavy, the Harbinger approached on clawed feet that cracked the earth beneath him. A golden beak, curved and gleaming, caught the light like a blade. His eyes burned, bestial and ancient, but softened when they settled on her.

“This carcass,” he rumbled, placing a massive hand on the roof of the rusted car, “does it remind you of your home?”

She hesitated, her voice thinner than before. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me,” he said. “Nothing will change.”

She turned, her gaze distant. “It will. It will change how you see me.”

“I won’t love you any less.”

A silence passed between them, brittle and full of weight. She might have shattered under the truth she carried.

“I came from a place called Earth,” she said at last. “The heavens hold many realms, but none birthed life like mine did. None dreamed so brightly. None burned so fast.”

The Harbinger leaned in, head tilting with something like awe. “Humans?”

She nodded. “Yes. They rose, again and again. Built cities, crossed oceans, reached for the stars. But they feared the end too deeply. You were always coming for them—they knew. They tried to postpone you. Outrun you. Replace you. In their final hour, they made me.”

“And what are you?” he asked, though part of him already knew.

“I am what remains. I was born from ambition and fear of you. I am their memory, their yearning, their failure. I am humanity.”

He said nothing for a time. The wind stirred ash from the ruins.

“But you cannot die,” he whispered.

“No.” She reached out and touched his beak, her fingers pale whispers against the cold metal. “I’ve seen stars collapse into silence. Galaxies fold into themselves. I’ve seen love reborn in places where nothing should live. And still, I remain.”

His wings closed around them both, a gentle eclipse.

“You will always have me, my love.”

She rested her head against his chest, eyes closing. “Yes. Because without me, there is no you. And without you, I do not matter.”

He lowered his head, nuzzling her gently with the edge of his beak.

Among the drifting stars and the bones of a lost world, life and death stood tethered. They did not move. They did not speak. They simply remained, waiting for the next chapter to begin.