Time since the asteroid hit Earth: ~4.85 billion years (subjective to Aryan)
The law was in place.
Error was sacred.
Evolution, eternal.
Aryan's universe pulsed with unfinished beauty — asymmetrical nebulae, broken yet brilliant worlds, species that learned *by failing*.
Z did not return.
For a moment, Aryan believed he had outsmarted the inevitable.
> "You know," Light God said, juggling three micro-galaxies, "for someone who built the rules of everything, you're really bad at taking naps."
> "I can't sleep," Aryan replied. "The code keeps rewriting. That's good. But it's… reacting to something."
> "Like what?"
Before Aryan could answer, the veil around the evolving cosmos **shuddered**.
A tear appeared — not from within, but from a *collapsed universe adjacent to a failed one*.
Something drifted through.
Not a comet.
Not a probe.
A **memory fragment**.
Aryan caught it gently. It pulsed — not with data or code, but with **emotion**. A very specific one.
> "Regret," he whispered. "Human regret."
He pressed his essence into it, and it **opened**.
Suddenly, Aryan was on Earth again — not the one he left behind, but a recreation of his old observatory. He was young. Alone. And staring at the stars with tearful eyes.
> "This is... me," he realized.
The memory wasn't his design. He never coded this. Never **meant** for it to return. But it had come anyway, from somewhere outside time.
> "Hey," Light God said quietly. "You okay, Space Dad?"
Aryan didn't speak. He was watching himself — the *old Aryan*, the *human Aryan* — looking up after publishing his final paper.
The paper titled: **"Are We Alone in This Universe?"**
> "I remember this night," Aryan said, his voice cracked. "It was the last night I ever truly cried."
> "Why?" Light God asked.
> "Because I knew I would never find the answer… and I didn't want to live without knowing."
> "So you became the answer," Light God said. "And forgot the question."
The younger Aryan stared into the sky, whispering:
> "I don't want to be alone."
Back in the Drift, the memory fragment disintegrated — but not before seeding itself into the base neural lattice of the new universe.
From it, a strange result began to emerge:
Creatures began **yearning**. Not just evolving — but longing. They desired connection. Companionship. Meaning.
> "They're dreaming," Aryan whispered. "Even before language. They're forming *questions*."
> "Looks like your old heartbreak infected the whole timeline," Light God chuckled. "Hope you don't regret that."
> "No," Aryan said. "Maybe… this was always meant to happen."
And as if in response, across hundreds of light-years, a primitive being looked at the stars for the first time — and *wondered*.
Not out of fear.
Not out of need.
But out of **loneliness**.
Aryan stood silent.
> "So… what now?" Light God asked.
> "Now," Aryan said, "I design the architecture of dreams."
— End of Chapter 16