the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had always believed there were limits to absurdity.

This belief had survived wars, immortality, and an unfortunate incident involving a moon with abandonment issues.

It did not survive the discovery that loneliness had apparently begun making dinner reservations.

He sat at the table in the house with the lantern while five empty chairs waited patiently beside the others.

Interesting.

He disliked empty chairs.

They possessed a concerning tendency to become emotionally significant.

"No."

"There it is."

Lucien ignored Tomorrow.

Dinner had proceeded with its usual degree of chaos.

Astrael had somehow managed to set water on fire.

No one had explained how.

The Dragon King had continued his campaign to ensure Lucien consumed sufficient vegetables.

Orion had spent twenty minutes arguing with Sol regarding whether sunlight qualified as a seasoning.

Lucien had learned that retirement was apparently indistinguishable from mild insanity.

He found this deeply suspicious.

"You've looked at the empty chairs twelve times."

"I have done no such thing."

"Thirteen."

Lucien was increasingly convinced that everyone around him counted things entirely too often.

This was likely a symptom of immortality.

Or affection.

He remained uncertain which possibility was more concerning.

"Who are they for?"

Silence settled over the table.

Interesting.

Apparently, that had been the correct question.

Tomorrow slowly set down their teacup.

"We don't know."

That answer caught him entirely off guard.

"You don't?"

"No."

"Interesting."

The First Dream smiled softly.

"We've never reached this part before."

Silence.

"I'm sorry?"

"This is new."

That...

That was unexpected.

Lucien had become accustomed to everyone else possessing an alarming familiarity with events he had never experienced.

The idea that something could still surprise them felt strangely comforting.

"And the chairs?"

"The house made them."

Of course it did.

Naturally.

Lucien was rapidly approaching the conclusion that his house possessed entirely too much autonomy.

"I was unaware my home had opinions."

"It doesn't."

"The evidence suggests otherwise."

Fair.

The child who remembered every goodbye looked toward the distant horizon beyond the window.

"The lights are getting closer."

Lucien followed his gaze.

They were.

Interesting.

There had been four lights at sunset.

There were now four figures.

Small.

Barely visible.

Walking patiently through the darkness between universes.

"That seems concerning."

"No," Tomorrow replied gently. "I think it's hopeful."

Dangerous.

That word had become dangerous.

Hopeful.

Lucien had spent fourteen billion years teaching existence not to give up.

Apparently, existence had taken notes.

The first figure carried a lantern.

Interesting.

The second appeared to be considerably taller than the others.

The third walked with a noticeable limp.

And the fourth...

The fourth kept stopping to look back over their shoulder.

Lucien found that detail particularly concerning.

"Can you see them?"

"No."

"And yet?"

"I know."

Silence.

He was becoming increasingly tired of those words.

"They're afraid."

The room grew quiet.

"Of what?"

Lucien remained silent for a moment.

Then—

"That no one will answer the door."

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

A memory surfaced immediately.

A small voice calling into endless darkness.

"Hello?"

And another voice answering.

"Hello."

The memory faded.

Tomorrow smiled beside him.

"You've always been good at recognizing that expression."

"I dislike the implications of that statement."

"Most of your life involves disliking implications."

Fair.

Outside, the lantern hanging beside the house suddenly brightened.

Interesting.

The Dawn Lilies in the garden began swaying despite the absence of wind.

And somewhere deep within the foundations of the house, Lucien could have sworn he heard contentment.

No.

Absolutely not.

He refused to acknowledge the possibility that his home had developed emotions.

That path led only to complications.

A knock echoed through the night.

Three soft taps.

The entire house fell silent.

Lucien remained perfectly still.

Interesting.

That had been significantly faster than anticipated.

"Well."

Orion slowly put down his tea.

"That seems statistically unlikely."

"Agreed."

The knock came again.

Gentle.

Patient.

Lucien found himself unable to move.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

For fourteen billion years, he had been the one standing outside the door.

He had never considered what it would feel like to answer one.

Tomorrow quietly stood.

"You should get that."

"I fail to see why."

"It's your house."

"That seems like an insufficient reason."

"No," Tomorrow said softly. "But I think it's enough."

The room had gone impossibly quiet.

Even Sol's light had dimmed.

Lucien slowly rose from his chair.

Interesting.

His hands were trembling.

That seemed inappropriate.

He had faced gods with less apprehension.

The walk to the door felt longer than it should have.

The lantern beside it burned warmly.

Patiently.

Waiting.

Of course it had been waiting.

Everything in his life eventually became waiting.

He placed one hand upon the handle.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, quietly, the child who remembered every goodbye whispered:

"You came home."

Silence.

"And now..."

Lucien closed his eyes.

"...it's someone else's turn."

The door opened.

Four figures stood beneath an unfamiliar sky.

The first was a young boy carrying a broken lantern.

The second, an old woman with tired eyes.

The third, a dragon missing one wing.

And the fourth...

The fourth was simply a child.

Small.

Afraid.

Lonely.

They looked up at him with the same expression he had worn at the beginning of existence.

The smallest among them spoke first.

"Um..."

Their voice trembled.

"We heard there was a house that leaves the light on."

The world stopped.

Lucien could not breathe.

Behind him, he heard Tomorrow begin quietly crying.

Interesting.

That kept happening.

The child shifted nervously.

"We're sorry for arriving so late."

Silence.

"No."

The word escaped before he could stop it.

"There it is."

Lucien ignored himself.

"You aren't late."

The lantern beside the door burned brighter.

The Dawn Lilies bloomed beneath the stars.

And somewhere, impossibly far away, the universe smiled.

Because after fourteen billion years, the boy who had once asked lonely things if they were alright had finally built a place where they could ask him the same question.

Lucien stepped aside.

"Come in."

And for the first time in all of existence...

The house with the lantern welcomed its first guests.