Space: a subject poorly understood by most. A void—dark, infinite. No souls, no cities, no trees. No homes, no families. No friends. Nothing. All-encompassing in its cruelty, an unyielding concept that will endure for all time.
Paradoxically, both outside and within—
Stars bursting with untapped energy. Planets ablaze with life. Nebulae like endless brushstrokes, color layered on color. Mass so compressed it drags the very idea of gravity into being—power enough to hold everything together.
Galaxies within universes within multiverses. Millions upon billions of realms, all suspended in the void, all birthed from the omniverse. Some so alike their only difference is a housefly battering a window. Others split apart by a single, trivial choice. And some diverge so violently they might as well be night and day.
Most—but not all—turn around a boy. Fragile. Small. Important. A destiny brighter than any star.
In most tales, a hero from birth.In others… not so much.
But one thing is certain: the boy is always at the center. This journey will not follow them all. This story, dear reader, is about one—one whose adventure is just beginning. So buckle up. It's going to be a bumpy ride.
"That it will… May I ask who you are speaking to, mongrel?"
I drew a breath and felt goosebumps ripple—ridiculous, because Celestialsapiens don't get goosebumps. I turned—slowly, absolutely not because of my age—and saw only the endless void. Just more nothing. And in the endless distance, collapsing universes. Which made no sense. Only a handful of us should even be capable of surviving in this dense void. Not that I chose any of this. I was condemned here for using my power to erase my other half. A fitting punishment.
So who was speaking?
You don't need to worry about who, or what, the voice said. Only about escaping with your life...Adam.
Time smashed down on me in a dark purple hue.
Pain. Pure and immediate.
I groaned inwardly as my already thin reserves bled away faster. Celestialsapiens are ageless, yes, but not unkillable.
Made worse by the fact you erased your counterpart, the voice went on, echoing through the void. You didn't just halve your cosmic power—you carved away your own immortality. Isn't that right, mongrel?
The purple deepened and brightened at once. I felt myself aging—truly aging—at an unbearable speed. Soon I'd go to dust.
I refused.
I gathered what energy I had left and pushed back with time of my own—
Nothing. The purple burned brighter. A chuckle. Then full laughter.
Did you really think you, a faulty, broken Celestialsapien, could fight me with time? Pitiful. My race are masters of it. It would be like a Methanosian trying to beat a Pyronite on his home star. Insulting.
Space unfolded. And then I saw them.
"You—" The word caught. "That's impossible. Your race is extinct!"
I shouted too late. Time folded around and through me from every side, in every dimension, and the edges of me began to unmake.
Not for long, he said. It took millennia to bring you to this moment. Even if the chance of success is a fraction of a fraction, I will repeat this again, and again, and again—until we are reborn. Until the end of time.
I fell into the abyss.
"Now that that is done…" He lifted his hands. Purple radiance spilled from his palms. Across millions of light-years, the collapsing universes shuddered. A violet tide rose from within them as they turned, converging—toward him.
They merged with the husk of the Celestialsapien, and a cosmic boom detonated, hurling the being light-years away.
He righted himself and watched. Universes and corpse alike unraveled, sifting into energy and dust—power like nothing recorded. He waited. How long? Not even he could say.
At last he raised both arms. A blinding flare erupted from him and speared the writhing mass he had engineered. He growled, straining to force what lay outside most if not any, creature's authority:
The birth of a new universe.
Of a new reality.
Energy bled from him in torrents—siphoned, torn—until his scream split the void: anger, desperation, grief, loneliness. He drove himself to the brink, hands shaking as the construct collapsed tighter and tighter, folding into itself, hardening into a single, radiant egg.
And as it sealed—
Boom.
"No—!" The denial tore out of him, ragged, as the collapsing egg spat him into the void. Pain wracked him; exhaustion—body, mind, spirit—dragged him under. He blacked out, never noticing the small thing in the far dark that would change everything.
A small golden hand slipped through an incision in spacetime. What lay beyond was unsayable—beyond sight itself. A second hand followed. The pair hovered, tilting, then fixed on the wreckage. They moved with quick, curious precision.
They began to work.
Tap—space. Flick—time. Clap—everything.
With each gesture, the debris obeyed, drawing together and filling with newfound, godlike vitality. The remnants spiraled, fused, brightened—until the egg coalesced again.
Only this time, it did not fail.
This time, after condensing, it expanded—spinning web-like filaments as a new universe took shape. The golden hands, work nearly done, drifted through the void toward its newborn center. At the core they flew together at godlike speed and collided. A shockwave rose—but a golden dome caught it, leaving the darkness untouched. One drop of golden blood fell into the heart, and the hands vanished as if they'd never been...
Somewhere within the newborn cosmos, a boy will breathe for the first time...
...
I raised a hand to shield my face as cars slid past, headlights slicing the dark. The traffic lights blinked from green to yellow to red, slowing, stopping. An autumn breeze shoved back at me.
Leaves skittered along the sidewalk, already tipping into orange and gold. A bus sighed at the curb; somewhere, a saxophone threaded a tired tune through the cold. The air smelled faintly of rain-that-never-came and roasted nuts from a street cart two blocks over. I tugged my jacket tighter. My heels tapped a steady rhythm; my shoulders carried the weight of a long day. Almost home. I couldn't wait.
Ring.Ring.
I checked the screen and smiled before I even answered. "Hey, Kaitlyn, honey—how was your day? Almost home? Little Benjamin wants to blow out his candles before bed," my husband, Noah, said, sounding as worn out as I felt.
"Yes, almost home. The office was rough—my boss had us running in circles," I said, the exhaustion leaking through. "How's Benjamin? I'm so sorry I couldn't be there for his birthday…"
Noah chuckled. "Why don't you ask him yourself? Ben! Get over here—Mom's on the phone!" Tiny footsteps thundered in the background, then a breathless skid.
"MOMMY!"
"Hi, baby! Happy birthday! I'm so sorry Mommy couldn't be there today." I quickened my pace, cutting the corner by the bakery with the fogged-up windows, eager to get out of the wind and back to my family.
"It's okay! Dad's been playing with me and even let me open all my presents—"
"Nope! That's… that's a secret, buddy," Noah stage-whispered. "Between us."
"NOAH."
"Oh boy. I'm in trouble, aren't I?" He sounded properly anxious.
"Once I get home—"
"Sorry, sweetie, the phone's breaking up—gotta go—bye!"
Beep.
I know what I'm doing before bed, I thought, a smile tugging at my mouth as our block came into view. A gust tugged at my scarf; a stray leaf clung to it like a passenger. Oh, he's in for it.
I crossed the final street. The familiar silhouette of our townhouse rose ahead, windows glowing warm against the night. The "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" banner Noah had hung at a proud but crooked angle sagged in the middle like it had already blown out its own candles.
Home.
I jogged up the steps, fumbled the keys, and slipped inside. The door clicked shut, cutting off the wind. Heat and the faint scent of vanilla candles wrapped around me. There were paper plates stacked on the console table and a constellation of rainbow sprinkles glinting on the hardwood, evidence of a party that had gotten delightfully out of hand.
"Mommy!" Benjamin barreled down the hall, paper crown askew, frosting on his grin.
I dropped to my knees in time for the full-body tackle and hugged him tight, breathing in his soft curls and the warm, sugary smell clinging to his sweater. "There's my birthday boy."
He pulled back, beaming. "Did you bring cake too?!"
"You already had cake."
"Yeah, but double cake is the best kind!"
"She's not wrong," Noah called from the kitchen. He leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, trying and failing to look sheepish. There was a smear of chocolate on his cheek and a plastic dinosaur wedged into the pocket of his hoodie like a tiny hitchhiker.
"All his presents?" I asked, pointed.
He rubbed his neck. "Define all…"
I stood and handed Ben the small package I'd grabbed at lunch: an old-fashioned brass compass, the needle twitching even when he held it still. For a second my father's hands flashed in my memory—oil-stained knuckles, the way he'd set the same compass in my palm when I left for college. It won't tell you who to be, he'd said, just where you are. Sometimes that's enough. I swallowed and found my smile again. He had once said it would keep me safe. I think Ben needs that now.
"It's not a toy," I said, "but I think you'll like it."
Ben turned it over, fascinated. "What's it do?"
"It always points north," I said. "No matter where you are."
Behind him, Noah raised an eyebrow and mouthed, Symbolism?
I shrugged. It felt right.
The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then held.
Noah frowned. "Weird. I thought the grid was stable now."
A chill slipped under my skin, quick and inexplicable, like remembering a word you haven't said yet. "Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "Probably just a storm rolling in."
There was no storm in the forecast.
I let the unease go and followed the warmth and chatter into the kitchen. Ben stood on a chair, eyes sparkling at the single candle flickering in a chocolate cupcake. The kitchen looked like a birthday had exploded: crumpled wrapping paper like snowdrifts on the counter, three different sizes of paper crowns, a hand-drawn rocket taped crookedly to the fridge.
"Okay, kiddo," Noah said, crouching. "Big wish. And don't wish for more cake—we already have too much cake."
"I can't tell you or it won't come true," Ben said solemnly, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could hold the entire universe steady.
"Smart boy," I murmured, stepping beside them.
He puffed his cheeks and blew. The flame danced, then vanished in a wisp that smelled faintly of wax and chocolate. We clapped; Ben gave a tiny bow like a magician finishing his act.
"Party's over," Noah said, scooping him up. "Bedtime."
"It's still my birthday," Ben groaned, clinging with theatrical despair.
"You had a whole day," I said, tickling his side. "And tomorrow—park. You'll need energy."
"Can I bring my compass?"
"Every explorer needs one."
We headed upstairs, Ben riding Noah's shoulders like a prince. As they passed the hall mirror, Ben tilted the compass and giggled at the way the needle quivered. In his room, the rocket-ship night-light cast soft stars across the ceiling, a slow galaxy wheeling overhead. The blinds whispered against the window with each sleepy gust. He curled into bed with a stuffed dinosaur under one arm and the compass cradled in the other, the brass face catching a little moonlight and blinking.
"Story?" he asked, already sleepy.
"Just a short one." I brushed a curl from his forehead and told him about a brave boy with a paper crown, a magical compass, and a world of wonder waiting just outside his window—about maps that draw themselves as you walk and doors that appear when you're kind. Halfway through, his thumb found the edge of the compass and stilled there like it had always belonged.
By the end, his breathing was slow and deep. Noah tucked the blanket around him, smoothing it once, then again, like he could iron time flat with his hands. We lingered in the doorway, the quiet settling over us. Somewhere in the walls, the heater clicked alive; outside, a siren rose and fell and faded.
Downstairs, the dishwasher hummed. The house gave its familiar, gentle creaks. A framed photo on the mantel—beach day last summer, Ben mid-laugh, Noah squinting into the sun—leaned a little too far to the left. I straightened it without thinking.
No wild adventure. No more flickering lights. Just us.
Home.
We stayed there a moment longer, watching Benjamin sleep in the soft spill of the night-light. Noah's arm slid around my waist; I leaned my head on his shoulder and let Ben's steady breaths quiet the day still buzzing in my chest.
"He's getting so big," Noah whispered.
"Too fast."
A beat of silence. Noah's jaw worked like he had a thought he couldn't quite place, then let it go.
"You were right about the compass," he said softly. "He hasn't let go of it. Makes him feel like an adventurer."
"That was the idea."
Noah kissed the top of my head. "You always know what he needs."
"Maybe," I said, "but that doesn't get you out of trouble for the present-opening incident."
He winced. "Fair."
Back downstairs, the kitchen glowed warm. Cupcake crumbs dotted the counter; a single sprinkle clung to the fruit bowl like a star that had lost its sky. I took a bite of a half-eaten piece and held it out; Noah leaned in and finished it.
"You know," he said with a smirk, "double cake is the best kind."
I laughed and sank into a chair. "It was a good day."
"Yeah. Simple. Easy. Normal." He paused, thumb rubbing a circle on the table like he was polishing a thought. "I like normal."
We let the kind of silence settle that only comes at the end of long, full days—when everything important is already known.
Outside, wind rustled the trees. Inside, the world was still. The refrigerator hummed, then clicked off. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard sighed as the house exhaled.
"Movie," I asked, "or classic pass-out-on-the-couch?"
"Define energy," he said. "I'm about ten minutes from becoming one with the cushions."
"Couch cuddles and a terrible sci-fi, then."
We collapsed onto the couch in a familiar tangle—my head on his chest, his arms wrapped around me. The TV flickered to life, washing the room in cold light that made the candle flames look braver.
"Pick the one with aliens and the worst reviews," he yawned.
"Done," I said, selecting Cosmic Invasion IV: The Reckoning.
We didn't make it halfway through before our eyes drifted shut. The soundtrack's synth swelled and thinned; the screen's light pulsed against my eyelids like distant lightning. Noah's heartbeat thudded steady under my ear.
But it didn't matter. We were together. Safe. Home.
Until we weren't.Until it wasn't home. Until I saw my baby boy for the last time.
I didn't know it then. How could I? It was just another quiet night. A bad movie. A warm couch. Another day like any other.
How could I have known what Noah would do? How could I have known tonight would be my last?