The Weight of Legacy

The next time she opened her eyes—the next time she had eyes—she found herself wanting to close them again. Her eyelids were heavy, sticky. Whatever she was laying on was also surprisingly comfy, enough that she found herself snuggling as she sucked her thumb. It was not unlike having an important meeting but wanting to get those extra five minutes while the alarm snoozed, though ‘figuring afterdeath out’ should have perhaps ranked higher in her list of priorities.

Had she been… in the stars? The clarity she recalled having there was faltering in some ways, though not entirely.

For a long time, she had lived by the words of a song she had replayed decades before, its translation clearer in her mind than any details of exactly when or how she heard it—if I die tomorrow, the ones who’d suffer would be my kids.

Had the spaceship indeed exploded—the only explanation she could think of with what she recalled—she would have simply known no more. It was what she expected. This was… new. She was grateful, no doubt, but excitement was something she wasn’t ready for.

The stars snapped back into focus within her mind, the image oddly clear. Yes, the spaceship had exploded. Yes, she’d spent some time in the stars, doing what she could only retroactively call setup for this new life.

She’d have considered it outrageous, perhaps, if she weren’t growing certain she had long lost the capacity to treat anything about this new life with the seriousness it probably warranted.

There was a loud pop, followed by the distinct thudding of some type of furniture hitting the ground.