the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had built many things throughout his existence.

Some had lasted centuries.

Others had endured until the end of stars.

Very few had immediately begun violating the fundamental principles of architecture.

And yet, as four guests stepped across the threshold of the house with the lantern, Lucien watched in growing concern as reality quietly decided it required more space.

"This seems excessive."

"No," Tomorrow replied through unmistakable tears. "This seems overdue."

The house had grown.

Not dramatically.

Not impossibly.

It had simply...made room.

The hallway was wider now.

There was a second staircase where none had existed previously.

And somewhere in the distance, Lucien was reasonably certain he could hear another kettle beginning to boil.

Interesting.

He had not authorized any of this.

The young boy carrying the broken lantern remained frozen just inside the doorway.

His eyes moved from Lucien to the room beyond, lingering on the impossible gathering around the dinner table.

"You weren't lying."

Lucien frowned.

"People frequently inform me that I am many things. Liar is rarely among them."

The boy blinked.

"Oh."

"There it is."

Lucien was beginning to suspect that phrase had become hereditary.

The old woman beside the child laughed softly.

"My husband told me stories about this place."

Dangerous.

That sentence had become dangerous several chapters ago.

"He said if I ever grew too tired to continue walking, I should look for a lantern at the end of the road."

Silence settled over the room.

"What was his name?"

The old woman looked surprised.

"You remember names?"

"No."

"That's fair."

She smiled gently.

"His name was Elias."

A memory surfaced immediately.

A man sitting beside a campfire beneath an unfamiliar sky.

"Do you think people are ever truly gone?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because someone, somewhere, still remembers their favorite joke."

The memory faded.

Interesting.

Lucien had apparently spent a significant portion of eternity saying things designed to emotionally compromise his future self.

This remained inconsiderate.

The dragon missing one wing bowed his head slightly.

"I was told this was where broken things came to heal."

Lucien remained silent.

That...

That sounded dangerously close to the truth.

Finally, the smallest child stepped forward.

They couldn't have been older than seven.

Interesting.

That detail continued to disturb him.

"Are you really Lucien?"

"I have been informed that I am."

The child considered this carefully.

"My mother said you'd be taller."

Silence.

Behind him, Tomorrow began laughing.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

The child tilted their head.

"You say that a lot."

Lucien suddenly understood what everyone else had been experiencing for the past sixty chapters.

He disliked it immensely.

The child held out a small piece of paper.

"We brought something."

Lucien accepted it cautiously.

It was a drawing.

A simple house beneath a star-filled sky.

And hanging beside the door...

A lantern.

"I drew it from the stories."

The child's voice grew quieter.

"I didn't think it was real."

Dangerous.

Everything remained dangerous.

Lucien looked at the drawing for a very long time.

Then, quietly—

"It isn't entirely."

Silence.

"What?"

"This house should not exist."

The lantern beside the door flickered indignantly.

Interesting.

He was absolutely not acknowledging that.

The child smiled.

"That's alright."

"Why?"

"Because neither should I."

The room fell silent.

There it was.

The familiar shape of pain.

Lucien knelt until they were eye level.

"Interesting."

"What is?"

"I have found that existence is remarkably poor at determining what should and should not exist."

The child blinked.

"What does that mean?"

"It means..."

Lucien considered the question carefully.

"...that reality has a concerning habit of being wrong."

Soft laughter spread through the room.

Tomorrow quietly wiped away another tear.

Dangerous.

That kept happening.

Dinner became significantly more crowded after that.

Apparently, the house had anticipated this.

There were now four additional chairs around the table.

Interesting.

He distinctly remembered there being five empty chairs.

There was now only one.

Lucien had decided not to investigate this development.

Some mysteries benefited from remaining mysterious.

The boy with the broken lantern sat beside Astrael.

The old woman found herself in an animated conversation with Orion regarding the merits of blackberry pie.

The one-winged dragon had somehow become involved in a philosophical discussion with the Dragon King regarding the relationship between flight and freedom.

And the smallest child...

The smallest child sat beside Lucien.

Interesting.

"Do you really always come back?"

The question was asked quietly.

Carefully.

As though they were afraid of the answer.

Lucien found that his response came easier than expected.

"Eventually."

"Eventually is a long time."

"Yes."

Silence.

"But..."

Interesting.

He had become significantly more fond of that word.

"...I've discovered that waiting doesn't hurt as much when someone leaves the light on."

The child looked toward the lantern beside the door.

"Oh."

"There it is."

Lucien closed his eyes.

This was rapidly becoming a problem.

Outside, the Dawn Lilies continued to bloom beneath the night sky.

There were more now.

Of course there were.

And far beyond the horizon, at the edge of another existence, Lucien noticed something that caused him to stop breathing.

There was another light.

Then another.

And another.

Not four.

Not ten.

Hundreds.

Small.

Distant.

Lonely.

Waiting.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Tomorrow noticed immediately.

"Lucien?"

He remained silent.

The universe, it seemed, had been paying attention.

For fourteen billion years, one boy had spent his existence finding lonely things and teaching them they deserved to be loved.

Apparently...

They had started telling each other.

"Oh."

"There it is."

This time, however, the words carried something new.

Not sadness.

Not surprise.

Not even understanding.

Only wonder.

Because for the first time in all his lives, Lucien realized that kindness, much like loneliness, was contagious.

And somewhere, beyond the stars and beyond the end of existence itself, countless small lights had begun leaving lanterns burning for one another.