...

Are you there?

* * * * *

There is no day or night here, only the endless six-minute circle of the sun. Intellectually, of course, you understand the sun is not circling you, but that you are in fact circling it -- this fact does not make you feel any less watched. Your position scatters the light into a perpetually liminal red, neither sunrise nor sunset, observing the stars through the thin pocket of oxygen your equipment struggles to maintain.

The poles are the only parts of the Hourglass Twins that can host an unsheltered camp. Any closer to the equator, and the direct heat of your sun's gaze will strip away your makeshift atmosphere like candle smoke in the wind. Enough shelter to protect you, and you'll see nothing of the stars above.

In all honesty, you should have set up somewhere else. For star charting, you've come to prefer encamping on Dark Bramble's outer ice sheets, where you can take in the stars from the edge of your solar system mostly unobstructed. You have to move constantly to keep your gear from freezing in place, and take frequent breaks in your idling ship to avoid torpor, and one time some kind of awful little fish latched itself on to your ship and had to be pried off with a crowbar -- but the view! Space surrounds you in every direction like the sky over open plains, with the rest of your little solar system not much more than a nearby cluster. The stars move differently there, with a subtle parallax, and on the far side from the sun, the only interruption is the deep space satellite passing by every once in a while.

If it weren't for the bitter cold and your limited fuel, you'd be tempted to stay there forever. Hornfels and rest would have to come drag you home themselves.

... You haven't been to Dark Bramble in a long time.

Of your remaining planetary options, though, the poles of the Twins are somehow still among your better options. Giant's Deep lets no stars pierce through its all-consuming fog; Timber Hearth has weather, a magnetosphere, and orbital debris; Brittle Hollow's outer surface will give you a wonderful view until its Lantern takes aim at your encampment. Here, heat distorts and dazzles your vision in one direction, and the low-gravity sand clouds obscure another, but in the remaining direction, your little patch of open sky is always clear.

So here you are: updating star charts, because Hornfels spotted two (two!) supernovae last night and asked if you could spare the time to document them, and you would rather spend half an hour taking notes from here on Ember Twin than fly out to the ice sheets on a quarter tank of fuel.

The observation is not meant to be thorough at this stage, but you try to be, regardless. Science requires rigor, and it often seems you are the only traveler in the Wilds to supply it. (You suppose Riebeck is at least trying.) You will do your part in keeping that rigor until the stars themselves burn out if that's what it takes.

Estimating the original magnitude of Hornfels' supernovae from the light curve of your models, you notice another. Two degrees south, it blossoms in a flash of blue heat and then begins to fade into something pale and cinder-dull.

You smile to yourself, tapping a little roll on the edge of your drum, and note it down as well. Timber Hearth is facing the wrong direction to see this one, so you will be the one to tell Hornfels about it. You're sure they'll be delighted to hear it.

*

Everything is dying, and so are you.

Is it dying when the thing that will kill you hasn't struck you just yet? Does it matter if the anvil hangs over your head and you can only hear the rope about to snap? You don't care anymore. These are quandaries for those who do not see their death in minutes, just ahead of them; you are no philosopher writing poems on wandering stones.

You could not remove your helmet now even if you wanted to. The sun's surface is too close for your oxygen pocket to maintain itself -- under this heat, your trees and drum will catch fire any moment. Your suit keeps you from burning, but it cannot keep you forever; it will not save you from the desolation soon to follow.

At some point in the process, the drumskin goes silent beneath your fingers, and there comes the petulant passing thought that you were planning to fly home after this. You only meant to stay a few days longer in case the new astronaut came by, so they would not be left to explore the Twins all alone.

And that's another thing, isn't it? That unlucky hatchling, fresh from training, who was scheduled to launch some time this morning. Your chest shudders again against your will, and the heat steams away tears from tender skin. All you've ever done or meant to do has been torn from your desperate hands and burnt to ash, and still someone else will know worse. Did the hatchling even get the chance to leave the ground?

You hope they did. You hope they got to feel the rush of their first solitary flight, untethered and unattended, and then landed somewhere far away on the dark side of a planet, where they cannot see the bloated thing that looms before you like a pustule ready to burst.

Your sun, dark and massive as it now is, pulses and begins to compress itself down toward an ever brightening point. You stare at it until you have no choice but to close your eyes, and let one last sob wrack your chest, your knuckles white on the rim of the drum. You only had so much time.

The wave reaches you before your brain can perceive it. You die alone.

* * * *

Can you hear me?

* * * *

"Hi, Chert," is the first thing the village's newest astronaut says to you on landing. You do not think this is an appropriate greeting for someone who has just crashed their ship directly into your campsite, but you do not think any greeting is a particularly appropriate greeting in this case, so you're hardly about to argue over it.

"Are you alright?" you ask back.

The hatchling, little menace they are, only puffs out their chest and declares, "Well, it wasn't a boring crash, so I'd say it was pretty worth it." You can picture the cheeky grin behind their visor, still missing that front tooth. Incorrigible, this one.

"You're no Feldspar," you tell them. "But seriously, are you alright? Your ship looks like it's in terrible shape." You're frankly a little impressed it's still in one piece.

"Yeah, it's fine," they say, "I can fix it. Probably need more practice with that anyway."

"I take it your launch went well, at least?"

"Yeah, it's..." They falter, briefly. "It's going great! This is like, the only landing so far I've actually crashed, anyway."

"Oh? Where else have you been?"

"Uh, mostly just the Attlerock. I saw your notes there, actually!"

"Did you! I hope they were useful?" Which ones were those again? The Attlerock... yes, you left some notes with that spare tank of jetpack fuel, at the unofficial rest stop in the big crater. An analysis of the ice crystals preserved in the crater's permanent shadow -- you theorized they were fragments from whatever planet Dark Bramble used to be.

The hatchling nods. "I mean, I haven't gone looking for anything to do with Dark Bramble yet, but I'll probably do that later, yeah."

"Oh, don't worry about it. If the ice hasn't melted in the last hundred thousand years, I hardly think it's going to start melting now." You never followed up on that yourself, anyhow, though it's on your to-do list somewhere. "Well! Welcome to the Hourglass Twins, I suppose. Mind the sand."

"Aww, thanks. I will. Anything else I should keep an eye out for while I'm here?" The hatchling sidesteps a little closer to your campfire, and pulls out their roasting stick from their travel pack. You make a mental debate of whether or not to share your marshmallows with them. If Slate is to be believed, this one has a black hole for a stomach.

"Well," you say, casually nudging your marshmallow can behind a rock, "to be honest, I haven't left this lakebed, but I've been taking pictures from my campsite with my little scout, so I can offer a few recommendations. Have you seen that old shipwreck site on southern hemisphere here? The one shooting a bright beam of light into the sky?"

The hatchling nods, enthusiastically, and you give them the run-down on the Nomai wreck you sent Riebeck new pictures of last week, and then a few other interesting ruins you've found on the surface. You haven't yet found any settlements -- only well-weathered spires sticking up out of the sand like monuments -- but the two of you have theorized about deeper structures tucked away in the planet's underground cave network. Investigating that is also on the to-do list for your next visit, though you won't complain if the new astronaut tries it first.

That said, they probably shouldn't try it right now, what with Ember Twin filling up so quickly. It's why you haven't been investigating any sites in person -- spelunking under these conditions is a great way to end up dead in a cave somewhere. You picture the new astronaut lost in one of those twisting sandstone tunnels, a rising river of sediments choking off the exit, and shudder. "Just watch out for the sand, alright? I've had to dig myself out once or twice, and it's not half as fun as it sounds."

"Yeah, you said that." The hatchling roasts their third marshmallow from their own can (they don't seem to have noticed yours at all), hovering it dangerously close to the flames. "I bet it's really cool down there, though."

"If you'd like to see something really 'cool', you should check out Ash Twin once a little more of the sand drains off," you tell them. "I promise you won't be disappointed."

"Oh? What's over there?"

You shake your head. "You'll just have to take a look for yourself!" It's certainly a better place to start than here, though you suppose they could still do worse. At least they haven't tried their luck with Dark Bramble yet -- that one would have given even Feldspar trouble.

"Aw, come on, not even a little hint?"

"Nope," you say. "Have fun!"

The hatchling grumbles a bit about secrets, and then leans onto your shoulder with a theatrical sigh. You nudge them slightly when their arms start to dangle over your drum.

"Anything else I can do for you while you're here? I assume you've got the repair situation under control."

"Eh," they say, "I guess I could... mm. Nevermind." They sit upright properly, grabbing their roasting stick off the ground and stowing it back in their rucksack. "I'm gonna go start on fixing those landing struts. Wish me luck."

"Will do," you tell them. "I'll see you around!"

Once they've patched up their ship enough to fly (with some help from your spare repair kit), your new astronaut takes off for Ash Twin, just as hoped. You watch them disappear over the planet's horizon, and then turn your eyes back to the sky.

You must have lost track of time, because you can't seem to orient yourself properly -- the constellations aren't where you expect them. The Giants' Clutch is too far clockwise, and the Little Fish seems too low, and you can't find the Hunter anywhere between them.

Did the Twins change their angle somehow? Or maybe the sun is just flaring up a bit and adding too much light? You squint through your helmet, which should already cut down the worst of the glare, but nothing gets any clearer. When you stare straight up, searching for the northmost star from Hearth, you find nothing but a black abyss.

You stare for too long before you realize the problem: the stars haven't moved at all.

As you watch, one of the dim stars of the Little Fish flickers and blinks out of existence. Three more stars -- the middle of the Great River -- all die together like fireworks, and the sky grows a little darker. Your hands shake, breaking your rhythm into a stutter.

How many are gone? Despite the atmosphere of the campsite, you aren't sure you can breathe. A mad impulse tells you to yank off the helmet before it suffocates you.

You keep drumming, though, an unsteady beat that watches four more stars go out before you put together your next thought. As you look back away from the stars, a red light washes over you, too hot, too close, too bright.

There's nothing else it can be. You're next.

* * * *

"Tell me again about supernovae?" asks the newest astronaut of Outer Wild Ventures, who clearly hasn't been paying attention during astronomy lessons. Not that you mind explaining! You only wish more people cared enough to listen.

"They're huge explosions produced by the death of massive stars," you begin, and wait for them to nod before continuing. "They look like extra bright stars to the naked eye, but you can tell the difference at higher resolution -- for example, if you zoom in on them with your signalscope."

(Hearth help you if they start asking you questions about that.)

"Ohh," they say. "I was wondering about that. I saw a couple last-- um, earlier, but I didn't know what they were."

"Oh, you saw those, too? Exciting, isn't it? It's very unusual to see even a single supernova, but I've seen at least three today." Five, if you count the two that Hornfels reported last night. You pause, thinking, pat-a-pat-pat on the drum. "I wonder if some of these stars are even older than we thought?"

You've been reconsidering your and Hornfels' models lately. It could still be a coincidence, but you've begun to wonder if there's some celestial event triggering this many supernovae at once. Your charts don't place these stars near each other, though, so it seems unlikely -- the discrepancy, if any, must be your observation of the stars themselves. Perhaps they age more like your models at first, and then reach a tipping point -- some critical mass -- that hurries along the rest of the process? Or maybe your models are completely wrong to begin with. If this keeps up, you might well be starting again from scratch.

"Yeah, about that..." The hatchling shuffles in place, wringing their hands a little. You glimpse a tight-drawn grimace squirming behind their visor -- they could not be less subtle if they tried.

"What, did you find something relevant? Do tell."

"It's..." They stop, and find something interesting in the sand to look at for a moment. You know for a fact there's nothing there. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about what?"

The hatchling kicks at the dirt, and their nervous hands snap to their sides. "Nothing. Just nerves. Um, how dangerous would you say that column of sand is?"

"On a scale from one to dead, about a seven or an eight. Awfully pretty, though." The quip comes by rote, but you don't like how uncomfortable the new astronaut still looks. "Say, did you know that the process of sandflow between the Twins actually reverses every so often? Right now, it's flowing from Ash Twin to Ember Twin, but in a few weeks it'll start flowing the other way again. We're not completely sure why it happens, but it seems to be a natural phenomenon."

"Oh," says the hatchling. Their fidgeting slows, ever so slightly. "Cool. I knew that."

"If you'd like to see something interesting, you should check out the other Twin once a little more of the sand drains off. I promise--"

"I won't be disappointed, yeah."

"--you won't be disappoint... ed. Er." You blink. "Sorry, have I said that to you before?"

"Yeah, it's fine," says the hatchling. "Everyone kinda does that now. I'm used to it." They laugh to themself, like they've just referenced some inside joke.

"Still, do let me know if I start repeating myself," you tell them. "I know I can be a bit hard to stop when I'm on a roll, but--"

"No, no, it's cool."

"If you say so," you declare. "What else I can do for you?"

"I think I've got what I need now," they say. They glance around and seem to catch something of interest behind you -- you turn to look, but you only see the sun. "Or, actually, can I ask you a hypothetical question?"

"Of course. Ask away!"

"If you were right next a star that was about to go supernova, is there anything you could do to stop it?"

"If you...?" What? You stare at them for a second, just to let the question really sink in, but no, you've heard them correctly. "Stars, no! Absolutely not. It's a giant explosion cause by forces inside the star that are completely beyond our control. Even if we had some kind of, I don't know, advanced Nomai technology to hand that could let us interact with a star like that, what would we even do? Add more hydrogen?" You shake your head. "Even if something like that were possible, it would be a temporary solution at best. The star will eventually still run out of fuel and die eventually."

"Oh," says the hatchling. You're not sure what they were expecting. Should you feel bad for crushing whatever cool idea they were probably going to tell you about? Maybe a little.

"Thankfully," you add, "we don't need to worry about that. None of the stars in our immediate cluster are big or old enough to go supernova any time soon, I assure you."

"... right," says the hatchling. "Yeah. Uh, nevermind. I think I'm gonna go explore some of those surface monuments now."

"Alright," you say. "Watch out for falling sand!"

*

There's music.

You don't notice, at first, when it begins, too fixated on the terrible thing before you -- you are dying, imminently, and it does not matter if it is in the sense of bleeding out or hearing a load-bearing rope snap above you. You're no philosopher, and you don't care; you only see now what's in front of your eyes, while you still have eyes to see. But your ears hear it, somehow, impossibly -- it is not muffled by your suit, or scratchy with radio static bolstered by the solar winds. It plays as if you were hearing it directly inside your helmet, inside yourself, from nowhere and everywhere at once.

It sounds like a lullaby. You have to cough and clear your throat (one last time) to be sure you haven't somehow started humming.

"Do you hear that?" you ask, not taking your eyes away from the sun. A thin layer of gold keeps you from blinding yourself -- for however long that still matters -- but all you can see is red.

"Hear what?" asks the unluckiest new astronaut in the solar system. They lean in over your shoulder like they might hear the output of your radio if they get close enough.

"The music," you say. "Not ours. From..."

"Ohhh, yeah. You can hear it, too?" They tilt their head, expression unreadable behind their visor.

"Yes."

It's beautiful.

"Neat," they say, like you're not all about to die. "I wasn't sure if it was only me or what. Gabbro never really mentions it. Maybe you have to have your radio on?"

"It can't be radio," you say, faintly. "It's too clear. The sun would drown it out."

"Oh, right. Yeah, that's weird, isn't it?"

"It is." You don't know what else to say.

You had so much you wanted to do, and now all that's left for you is a few minutes of heat on a little rock far away from almost everything you have ever known and loved. What a waste. What a waste! One of the last stars in the sky winks out without even a flash of a supernova, and you start giggling a little, hysterical, fingers tapping a nonsense rhythm on the side of your drum.

"If it helps, we're actually in a time loop, so we won't die," adds the new astronaut, who has clearly lost their mind. You forgive them. You think you've lost yours, too -- anyone would here.

"Is that how you're coping with this?" you manage. "It's a nice thought, I suppose."

"... you'd think that, wouldn't you," says the hatchling. "Heh. Yeah, I mean, I guess it's nice knowing this isn't the end. Still feels pretty bad, but it could be worse."

A tremor ripples the sun's surface like a wave across shallow water, and nausea washes over you as you watch the outer layers brighten and contract. It looks almost exactly like how you and Hornfels predicted.

It's really happening, isn't it? You become suddenly, inescapably aware of the hatchling's shoulder leaned against yours, the weight and faint warmth through the fabric. Alive, until it won't be. How unfair to you both.

"It doesn't really hurt," they say, so confidently you could almost believe them. "It's just bright and hot for a second, and that's it. You don't even have time to feel it."

They curl up closer to you, and you let them.

"... thank you," you tell them. "For being here."

"Don't thank me yet," says the hatchling. "I still have to fix all this."

"Of course," you say, but you're not listening any more. You close your eyes.

It's bright, and it's hot, and they're right.

* * *

Are you listening?

* * *

"... Are you quite alright?" You did tell the new astronaut to mind the sand, but as usual, they don't seem to have listened.

"Yeah, it's fine," they say, sweeping a wave of sand into your campfire and nearly putting the poor thing out. You don't think the way they're limping looks "fine", but you keep it to yourself for the moment. "It's okay, Chert. None of this matters. Isn't that great? Everything is just, just great!"

Well, that's more than a little alarming.

"I appreciate the optimism, but really, are you alright?"

Your newcomer only laughs. You can't see their face behind the visor, but the laughter goes on for far too long, until it starts sounding more like a sob, and you think that's enough of that, actually.

"Right, get over here. How badly are you hurt?"

"It's fine," they repeat, pushing you away when you get up to get a look at them. "It's fine, Chert, all of it's fine. It's all fine!"

"It is clearly not fine," you say, "or you wouldn't be trying so hard to convince me otherwise. Where are you hurt?"

Their stance shifts, and you imagine a frown behind the visor. "Why are you worried about this? You're never worried about this."

Something twists in your stomach at that. They sound so tired, the way they say it, like it's a fundamental truth of reality. Have you really come off as so distant? You know you can be a little... devoted, to your work, but your tunnel vision can't have been that bad.

"I guess you don't know me well enough," you say, a bit too snappy, and then patch it over with, "But seriously, sit down if you can, there's no way you came out of that sand pillar fine when I can see you limping right now."

"I'm not--" Like the hatchling they are, they throw their hands up in defeat and give you a long, exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Fine! Whatever. If it keeps you busy, I guess. Go ahead." They settle down by the fire, more careless than their injured leg should make them, and do basically nothing else helpful, which you did sort of expect.

The injury is more obvious up close. Their ankle is twisted, badly, and they hiss and start to recoil when you touch it. "Were you just walking on this?" you ask, though the evidence is right in front of you.

"Obviously," says the hatchling. "How do you think I got here? Nomai warp?" You give them an odd look that probably doesn't reach them through your helmet. "My ship got sucked up in the sand pillar on Ash Twin. It's probably busted somewhere in the sand belt now."

"Slate's going to kill you," you note, neutrally.

"Slate's not going to do anything," they say. That laugh-turned-sob enters their voice again, and they giggle, sounding almost delirious. "Slate's never even gonna know."

"They'll figure it out when you come home in my ship," you point out, gently prodding at their leg to check for broken bones. So far, you've found only swelling, though the suit makes it hard to tell. "Speaking of which, can you sit tight for a moment? I'll need to go get the first aid kit if we need a splint or something for this."

"You don't need to," says the hatchling, waving a hand. "It's okay. I'll be fine in like, fifteen minutes." They giggle again.

"Right," you say. "Take off your helmet."

"What?"

"Take off your helmet," you repeat. "You sound like you hit your head on the way down, and I need to check if you have a concussion."

"I don't--!" They scoff, crossing their arms, which looks a little silly with all their gear on. "I'm not concussed or crazy or anything. It's fine."

"You've been acting off, and you're clearly already injured," you say, keeping your voice measured and calm. "Just let me check, at least."

You can feel the scowl through their helmet. "... I hate it when you all do this."

"Do what?"

"The whole-- ugh. This!" They throw their hands up in the air again, more frustrated than defeated this time. "I don't even blame you, is the sad part. I am acting weird! I just... I don't know. I guess it's my fault for not trying to explain. I don't know why I keep doing this to everyone. Like it's funny? Or like I just, like I just want something to happen, like-- like I just want someone to see something I guess, even if they don't get it--"

You're clearly missing something here. You blink again. "Slow down, what--?"

"And I don't know why-- I mean, you already have enough going on-- I don't know if maybe I just feel less bad because I know you're just gonna freak out no matter what? Or... ugh. I don't know. I guess..."

"Hatchling...?"

"I'm sorry. This was all dumb. I shouldn't... I shouldn't be taking it out on you like this."

"I still have no idea what you're talking about. You're going to have to be more specific."

The hatchling laughs again. You don't like how bitter it sounds. "That's okay. You can forget about it, it's fine."

"Again, it is clearly not fine. I'm pretty sure we established this about five minutes ago when you first came back here."

"It is, though," they say. "There's... there's nothing you can do about it. I have to fix this one myself."

You shake your head. "Whatever it is, I'm sure someone can help you with it."

They laugh, bitter again. "The only person who can help me is too busy waiting around to die, so I'm not counting on it." When you raise a hand, opening your mouth to speak, they cut you off. "It's not important, and I don't wanna talk about it. Let's just sit and play music or something, I don't care."

"... you're sure about that?"

"Yes," they say, more forceful than before. "I'm sure. I don't need to deal with this right now, and... and you don't either. Sorry."

You watch the set of their shoulders and the way their gloves ball into fists at their lap, and you read between the lines. "... well, as long as you talk to someone about it, alright?"

"Sure," they say. "Whatever. It's fine."

"We do still need to get you patched up, though."

There's a long pause, long enough you start to worry they're going to do something rash, but instead, their shoulders sag, fists uncurling. "In a little bit. I don't want to do that right now."

You'd rather not put it off, but the new astronaut is bigger than you (as they all are), and they haven't been hanging around in close-to-half gravity for a week. You take the truce.

"Did you ever settle on an instrument?" you ask.

"... not yet. I haven't really used the signalscope's broadcasting function either. Just picking up other stuff." They perk up a bit, adding, "Did you know that quantum rocks make a noise on the radio?"

"What, like that creepy rock we have in the museum?"

"There's others," says the hatchling, and does not elaborate.

"... Gabbro did say something like that once." It was more along the lines of claiming their magical rock friends were trying to talk to them. You're only mostly convinced that they were joking.

"Yeah. They like to play the same thing on their flute."

"You've been listening to them?"

"I guess." You don't see the hatchling's expression sour, but their voice conveys it well enough. If Gabbro is not involved in whatever is going on there, you will eat your own kerchief.

You backstep out of that particular mud puddle with a polite, "It's nice to listen to, isn't it? Anyway, did you have a song in mind?"

This seems to do the trick; their shoulders loosen and they sit a little more upright. "Uh, not really," they admit. "Everyone's been playing the Travelers' song today, so I guess I just assumed I would join in. Somehow?"

"That's fine," you say. "We can play that, then." You start tapping out the rhythm on your drum, a little simpler than usual, and wait a few measures for the hatchling to join you. Maybe they'll try whistling, like Esker? Or maybe they'll actually sing the words, like Gossan does -- or used to, before Gossan stopped going up much at all.

The new astronaut doesn't do anything. You keep playing, waiting for them to jump in, but they just sit there with their legs drawn up to their chest, not making any noise at all.

Out the corner of your eyes, you see another supernova blossom and fade. You've seen so many today it's a little overwhelming -- you lost count when the hatchling arrived, but you were on at least the eleventh or twelfth, and you've got the sinking feeling you've missed even more. Perhaps it's some kind of celestial event you don't understand yet, in another part of your galaxy, but there's been no reason or rhyme to the direction they've appeared in. Something is wrong with your models, and you don't know what. The sun's glare at this angle makes it hard to see anything outside your limited field of view, though: it's so bright, and so, so...

So red.

It's not supposed to be that red. You straighten up, neck craning as you take in the wall of plasma coming into view, your hands still tapping away without you. Tap, jingle, scrape.

Everything reflects it. Your bells; your telescope; the hatchling's visor; all of it has been painted a new color without your notice. How did you not see it? How could you have been so blind?

"What...?" The words leave your mouth without you. "How? How is that possible?"

"Oh," says the hatchling. "I guess that's time. Sorry." They pause, then say, "Can... can we still play? I forgot the lyrics, but I know the tune pretty well..."

Their words fall away into the void of space, sucked away like the edges of your atmosphere. You watch, transfixed, as the colors of your sun begin to change, brightening and shrinking back like the waterline before a wave. The light reverses course from red to orange, yellow, then further and wrong again: white, darkness, and then blue. (Your and Hornfels' models were right about some things after all.)

A new sound buzzes in your ears. Is the radio on? Static, maybe? Solar interference would be understating it. It doesn't sound like static, though; it has a distinct frequency almost like a note, as if the sun is tuning an instrument of its own to join you. You don't want to accept it.

In a very, very small voice, you say, "I think I want to be alone."

"Well, too bad," says the hatchling -- and it is the very last thing you hear them say. "You're all stuck with me."

* *

Science requires rigor, you tell yourself. Be thorough, be accurate, and write things down.

Writing down the coordinates of the sixty-first supernova you've seen in the last twenty minutes, you don't want to be rigorous or accurate. You mostly want to throw up.

The sun looms behind you like a wall of red, pulsing heat, too large and close to see the curve of its horizon. You scratch down rough estimated coordinates for supernova number sixty-two, which flashes too quickly for you to do more than guess its magnitude from the afterimage it leaves in your eyes. By coordinates alone, you recognize it as the last and dimmest star in the Little Fish constellation. Between the sun's haze and the nearly empty sky, you wouldn't have known.

Why are you still working? You stare blankly at your own notes, written in a frenzied scrawl that grows terser and less legible with each new entry. This paper will never make it back into your ship, let alone to Timber Hearth. Nobody but you is ever going to read it.

How many minutes left, now? Your models aren't going to help you.

A new light streaks across the sky, closer than most -- not a supernova. A ship, bright and buglike, veers off on a course unknown to you, skimming past the sun. It's not Gabbro's ship, or Riebeck's, or even Esker's -- for a split second, an insane part of you thinks, Feldspar?, but it looks nothing like that model either.

It must be the new astronaut. Do they know what's about to happen? It would be difficult not to notice the sun's new size and color by now, but you have no idea if ground control has drawn the same conclusions you have. You already made up your mind some minutes ago not to radio them about this. If you're right, it's kinder this way.

(You don't think you would get a clear transmission through the solar interference, regardless.)

The ship arcs around into Ash Twin's gravity well, disappearing over its horizon. You linger on the sight for a moment after it goes.

Maybe it's kinder, too, that you're alone. When you finally break down and weep, there's nobody around to hear it.

* *

Are you aware?

* * * *

When the new astronaut comes and lands by your campsite (an excellent touch-down, if you do say so yourself -- they've improved drastically since you last saw them), the first thing they say after climbing out of their ship is, "You were right."

"I do tend to be," you say, automatically. "Um. About what, though, may I ask?"

"The stars," they say, sounding defeated and explaining absolutely nothing. They flop down next to you by your campfire, flipping up the visor of their helmet without even checking the oxygen levels of your little bubble, and pull out a marshmallow and roasting stick from their pack in a practiced motion.

"You'll have to be a little more specific."

"The supernovae. You were..." They stop short, hands clenching tight around the stick, then change tone entirely. "I'm sorry. I didn't... I thought I could fix it."

"Fix what?" You raise a brow at them, though they probably can't tell through your helmet.

"The sun."

You blink all four eyes at that. "... Pardon?"

"I can't..." they trail off again, that same fidget with their hands. "I thought it would turn out to be the sun station, but it wasn't-- I don't know. It was stupid! I guess? Because you were right there and you saw, and I just... I just didn't want to listen, I guess. I don't know. It was right there in front of me and I was just ignoring you because I didn't like what you had to say. But you were right!"

"Can we go back and clarify what exactly it is you think I was right about?"

"The universe is dying," they say, "like, actually dying! Everything's going to die." They pause, shoulders hunching in a bit as they add, "Sorry. I just. It's a lot right now, you know?"

Um. "What?"

"The supernovae. You've seen it already, right? There's way too many of them. They're... they just keep going, and you just keep seeing more of them. The whole sky--" They stop here and say a few words that might have gotten their mouth washed out with soap if they weren't an adult now. "The whole sky is just black by the end, and I just kept ignoring that part because I didn't want to see it!"

"Hatchling, slow down. I have no idea what you're talking about right now." The eight supernovae you've seen in the last nine minutes bubble up at the back of your mind, but you push them aside for now. It's incredibly rare to see so many in such a short burst, but not impossible, and certainly not a sign of impending doom. Your science is quite past the stage of reading ill omens in the stars, thank you very much.

"The..." You watch as the new astronaut takes a deep breath in, holds it for a moment, then exhales, their shoulders growing still. Did Gabbro teach them that breathing technique they use for panic attacks? You don't remember this hatchling struggling with that kind of thing, but then again, you've never been that close.

"The... ?" you prompt.

"The universe is dying," they repeat. "I... I'm sorry. All the stars are going out. It's a natural process. Um, like you and Hornfels used to say would happen, eventually. Everything expands and cools and runs out of energy and... and dies. All the other stars are already dead. We're the last to go."

"... okay," you say. "That's..." You grimace, tapping your drum idly. You're no good with situations like this. "Technically, yes, we do believe that the universe will run out of energy and succumb to entropy, eventually, but there's... no reason to believe that's happening any time soon, let alone right now. It may be true the sun has... changed, lately, but I've not seen any evidence suggesting the approaching death of our sun."

They don't look satisfied with that, so you add, "I'll tell you what, though -- if it puts your mind at ease, I'll keep my eyes on the sun, and if I find any suggestion the core is collapsing, you shall be the first to know."

The hatchling only laughs, too bitter and strange, and your "never been that close" starts to sound like an understatement. Clearly, you've missed a great deal back home -- their choked-up voice pushes into manic as they just keep laughing, doubled over like you've said the funniest thing they could imagine. You hesitate as you move to reach for them, if only to keep their roasting stick from falling into the fire.

"Sorry, sorry," they manage after a minute, still wheezing. "Sorry, I just... I'm never prepared to hear that from you, especially this late in the loop."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing." At some point, the laughter starts to sound more like sobbing; you think you hear it in their voice now as they answer. "You always sound so confident. I... it's kind of wrong that I find it funny, I think? I just feel bad about it now."

"... Are you sure you're alright, right now?" You have to ask. If the answer is no, you're going to be babysitting them until they either come home with you, or ground control declares them fit to fly again.

The hatchling lets out another sob-laugh. "Hah! No." They sniffle, and attempt (with limited success) to wipe their unmasked face on their scarf. "Sorry. It's not that big a deal. You don't need to worry about it."

"You say that, but here you are coming to my camp and having a breakdown about it."

They shake their head. "It's really not. It's not the first time, anyway."

You aren't sure how to respond to that.

"How about this," you decide, after a moment. "You stay here and rest for a bit, until you're feeling a little less... existential, and we let Hornfels and the others know about that before you go fly off again. If you're still feeling weird later, we can both go back to base and find something else to help."

"You'd go back with me?" asks the hatchling, sounding taken off-guard. Behind them, almost parallel to their radio antenna, a ninth star goes supernova.

"The astral phenomena I've been observing are... very exciting," you admit, "but it sounds like this is more important."

The hatchling only shrugs. "Do what you want. It's not really going to matter in like, half an hour."

"In half an--?"

"Ignore that. Sorry. I... I shouldn't..." Their shoulders slump, curling in on themself. "I should probably talk to someone else about this. You were right about that, too."

"Do you have someone to talk to?"

"Yeah. I just haven't... been talking to them as much as I probably should."

"... Well, it's good that you have someone, at least," you say, and hope it's remotely true. "Is that a yes in favor of staying here for now?"

A heavy sigh. "Sure." They pull their marshmallow out of the fire -- it's been over the heat too long, and it's gone black and carbonized all except the bottom edge. You think only Gabbro would eat it now.

"It's not fair," they add. "To... to any of us."

"Hm?"

"The..." They pause. They haven't eaten the marshmallow yet, just staring at it for a moment before they keep talking. "The end. You said it was just... bad luck. For us. Being... born at the end of the universe."

You keep count of supernovae in the back of your mind as they talk. The Giants' Clutch constellation is missing some eggs it wasn't before, and you catch another star -- the head of the Little Fish -- winking out near the orbital plane. The afterimages glow like the cinders of your campfire, carried by the wind to sputter and die on the barren ground.

"I thought... maybe it wasn't that. That it was, I don't know... something I could fix? That maybe this whole-- the project was almost like a gift, to make sure... I'd get to fix it, and it would be..."

The Little Fish's top fin dies, too, while you're watching -- it's not even a proper supernova, just a little flare and then darkness. You can't see the Big Fish from your current angle, but you're sure it's fading, too. In your peripheral vision, the middle three stars of the Great River all burst like firecrackers and then wink out.

"They have a station at the sun," the hatchling adds, unprompted. "The Nomai, I mean. They had a whole project where they were going to blow up the sun, and I thought that was going to be it, but it wasn't, so..."

"Are you talking about that little thing we've been seeing in low orbit?" You've always wondered what it was. That said, if they launched less than an hour ago; you would have seen them if they flew anywhere near it.

"Yeah, that's the Sun Station. It blows up the sun, and it's broken. That's not even the point! Even the Nomai now think the universe is dying!" The what? "I didn't-- I got so mad about the sun station, because I thought -- maybe it's wrong, you know? Maybe it can't tell the difference between the project worked and the sun's going red giant and the sun's going red giant because it's dying of natural causes, or something, so maybe it's still salvagable-- but they were talking about all the stars near them exploding, too! And there were!" The blunt end of their roasting stick stabs at the sand by your campfire. "And you've been here this whole time freaking out about the end of the universe, and I was just pretending not to hear it!"

"... I'm not sure I understand," you say. "I haven't said any of those things. And the Nomai...?"

"Yeah, there's a time loop," the hatchling adds. "Sorry. I should have probably lead with that."

"... maybe we should make that call to ground control now," you decide. Before whatever's going on here gets any worse.

"You can do that if you really want," says the hatchling, "but Hornfels isn't gonna answer unless it's an emergency. They're too busy oohing and ahhing over that Nomai statue to care about anything else."

"I think whatever's going on here is a little bit of an emergency, hatchling." That's the wrong thing to say -- they flinch in a way that worries you they might run, but after a few more seconds they settle back down, like even that was too much effort. "Either you're very wrong, in which case, we should get you home to sort things out, or you're right, and we're all about to die."

"It's okay," they say. "Like I said. Timeloop. It's not gonna matter in about ten minutes." As an afterthought, they jerk a thumb at the sun behind you and add, "If you want evidence, it's basically right in front of you."

You turn around, and the sun is red.

How did you fail to notice? The color covers everything around you. Ember Twin's characteristic fiery backdrop has darkened into a thing like cooling magma. Your eyes water behind your visor trying to focus on it.

"That's... "

"Nine minutes, now. I think. I know it goes red around the twelve minute mark, but we've been talking for a little while now."

They're right -- they have to be. There's absolutely no other way they could have known. You were the expert, you and Hornfels, and your models never predicted it; not like this.

"How?"

"Nomai thing. The sun powers the timeloop. That's why they were trying to blow it up in the first place."

"And the sun...?"

"Yeah, it just dies. All the stars die. You told me about it a lot."

You stare at the red giant sun -- your sun, already unrecognizable. "That... that can't be it. That... how could I have missed so many signs?"

"Sorry," they add. "I know it's a lot."

"I... my charts..." You can't find the words.

You've counted a dozen supernovae, at least, by now -- not normal, not normal at all. And now your sun. There's no other explanation. They know because whatever is they're talking about is real, and whatever other past you they spoke to was right.

"... I don't feel well," you manage, at last. "I'd like to be alone, please."

The hatchling sighs. "Yeah, you always say that."

"Please don't take it personally."

"... I won't. I'll be back later, anyhow." They shrug as they stand, slow and far too calm. "I always feel bad leaving you alone at the end."

You ignore them, already retreating -- the drum sounds a steady tap-a-tap-tap beneath your gloves. You need to move. If you don't, you'll explode before the sun does.

Eight minutes later, when the sky is solid black tar-paper and your hands have gone quiet, the new astronaut reappears with a can of marshmallows. It's too hot to take your helmet off, but you don't complain. They roast a marshmallow they will never eat, and you sit together, quiet, and watch the very last star in the universe go out.

*

Are you ready?

(We never are.)

* * * *

Around the seven minute mark of the strangest, most exciting star-map-updating session of your life, something bright catches your eye -- not a supernova this time, but a ship, bright and buglike, arcing around into Ash Twin's gravity well. It's going too fast, and the coordinates of supernova number eight drop right out of your mind as you watch, your whole body tensing as if you're the one bracing for impact.

The ship vanishes below the horizon, somewhere south of the sand pillar. You don't see the landing, though you might convince yourself of a slightly irregular cloud of sand pluming up from just out of view, as if disturbed.

Whose ship was that? At those speeds, the only pilot that comes to mind is Feldspar, streaking through the sky like some kind of celestial ghost, but you know better. Feldspar is dead, and the shape of the ship was all wrong -- you saw the flare of retro-rockets engaging as it neared the surface, which means...

Your heart sinks. That can't have been the new astronaut, could it? Gossan mentioned to you -- complained, really -- that their landing skills needed work, but they'd still been cleared to launch. Your eyes leap to your radio, but the incoming transmission light stays dark.

You should contact ground control. If they haven't seen it themselves, it's your responsibility.

"This is Chert to Ground Control, do you copy? Hornfels--?"

* * * *

"I... I don't--"

"Calm down, Chert, just tell me what you saw. We... we can't be jumping to conclusions yet."

"What do you want to me to say, Hornfels?! They flew directly into the sun!"

"We don't..." You can hear Hornfels trying to steady themself on the other end of the line. "We don't know if they were still in the ship when it burned up. It's possible they could have engaged the emergency cockpit eject before they..."

You don't know why they're trying not to believe you. They have the equipment to monitor the vital signs of any astronaut in the Wilds. They should be able to see the flat line in front of them, signal lost, and come to their own conclusions.

You know what you saw.

* * *

"But the thing is," says the new astronaut, ignoring you completely, "if you go in then, there's not enough sand, so the corridor is totally full of cacti and I have to jetpack over them, and it's the worst, Chert, I'm telling you--"

"What are you even talking about?"

"Cactus tunnel, keep up. Anyway, I told Gabbro and they just told me I should go in when it's full of sand so I don't have to deal with the cacti, but--"

"No, no." You shake your head. "Why are you using your jetpack for this? Just climb--"

* * *

Around supernova number twelve, you see a ship, bright and buglike, streak across the sky. It's headed for Brittle Hollow, but the angle seems strange, as if it's coming from far away. Did the new astronaut take a little tour around the edge of the solar system first, before coming back in to visit?

A sickening feeling grows in your chest, eyeing the orange sun behind you. It's--

* *

"Wasted! Don't you understand?" Of course, they don't. Fifteen minutes ago, you wouldn't have, either. "The stars are going out! Hearth's name, we're next! There's no way it could be anything else at this point!"

"Okay, but like, can you tell me about--"

"Wherever you want to go, you're not going to live long enough to get there, so what's the point?"

"I know that," huffs the new astronaut, "but hypothetically, if I could explore--"

"What kind of hypothetical do you think we have?!" You're shaking. "This is it! What part of that don't you understand?"

Behind them, the last egg in the Giant's Clutch flares and dies. You've lost track of the numbers, thanks to them, but you've already counted--

* *

Ninety-five, ninety-six... supernova number ninety-seven is the last star you can see with the naked eye from your current angle, and so it is the last supernova you record. You don't have it in you to watch for any more through your telescope.

Your looming red sun churns ever closer, electromagnetic arcs on its surface forming loops that glow and spark like live wires. You suppose that makes for at least ninety-eight.

Why did you have to update the star charts today? Why did you have to be the one to know? Why--

*

"... Oh," you breathe, once you understand that the figure before you is real. "Hello."

The newest astronaut doesn't say anything back. The red light of your sun reflects across their visor like a singular, monstrous eye, trembling on the edge of collapse. You know what comes next.

"Come, sit with me, my fellow traveler." You pat the ground beside you, your tired drum finally coming to a rest.

You had a good time, but it's over, now. The new astronaut -- a hatchling, you know, deep down -- sits down in the sand and silence, and joins you as the sun inhales itself into a white-hot tangle. There's a split second of darkness, and then the world becomes shades of blue.

The wave reaches you before your brain can perceive it. You are so horribly glad not to be alone.

.

...

A song under your fingers; in the trees; in everything. You circle, tied to the telescope, staring at the sun. When you are dead, perhaps, you see the world from outside, as you do now: the rules have changed, and so has everything else.

A memory calls you home.

...

...

...

... do you hear music?