the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had spent a significant portion of his existence attempting to solve loneliness.

In retrospect, he had perhaps approached the matter with insufficient caution.

This was not entirely his fault.

After all, when one encountered a problem, the reasonable response was to attempt to fix it.

What no one had informed him was that kindness behaved remarkably like a wildfire.

Quiet at first.

Then suddenly everywhere.

He stood on the porch of the house with the lantern while hundreds of distant lights burned at the edge of existence.

Interesting.

There had been four yesterday.

This seemed statistically irresponsible.

"No."

"There it is."

Lucien ignored Tomorrow.

He had discovered that being ignored was apparently not a sufficient deterrent.

The First Dream stood beside him with a blanket draped over their shoulders. It had become increasingly difficult to determine who had started the blanket habit.

Lucien suspected it was a conspiracy.

"It isn't your fault."

"I remain unconvinced there is a fault."

"There is absolutely a fault."

Fair.

Lucien looked once more toward the horizon.

Hundreds of lights.

Hundreds of stories.

Hundreds of people who had somehow heard whispers of a house that left the lantern burning.

Interesting.

"I don't understand."

"That's normal."

"No, I mean specifically."

Tomorrow smiled softly.

"You taught people to leave the light on."

"Yes."

"And they taught other people."

The stars overhead brightened.

"Who taught other people."

Silence.

"And now?"

"Now the universe has a tradition."

Dangerous.

That word was dangerous.

Tradition.

Lucien had discovered that traditions were simply habits that had survived long enough to become emotionally significant.

This remained deeply suspicious.

The child who remembered every goodbye stepped onto the porch carrying a book nearly larger than himself.

"What is that?"

"The registry."

Silence.

"I'm sorry?"

"The House Registry."

Lucien immediately disliked the existence of a House Registry.

"Why does my home possess a registry?"

"Because people keep arriving."

That...

That was annoyingly reasonable.

The child opened the book.

It was enormous.

Thousands upon thousands of names filled its pages.

Interesting.

"There appear to be too many names."

"There are."

"How many?"

The child considered the question.

"Approximately six hundred and twelve million."

Silence.

Lucien slowly lowered his teacup.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, not visitors."

"That does not improve the situation."

"The houses."

The world stopped.

"What?"

The child pointed toward the horizon.

"Everyone started building them."

Lucien remained perfectly still.

"Houses."

"Yes."

"With lanterns."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

Tomorrow laughed softly.

"It turns out people like the idea of always having somewhere to return to."

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

Lucien was beginning to suspect that his influence on reality had been significantly more extensive than previously estimated.

This was unfortunate.

A memory surfaced.

A young Lucien sitting beside a campfire.

"What if people forget?"

"Then leave a light on."

"And if they still don't come back?"

Silence.

"Then leave it on anyway."

The memory faded.

Interesting.

He had been a problem for considerably longer than anticipated.

"There are six hundred million houses."

"Approximately."

"That seems excessive."

"It does."

"And?"

Tomorrow's smile softened.

"No one wanted to be the only one."

There it was again.

Always the same answer.

Loneliness.

Lucien had spent eternity believing it was a problem to solve.

Apparently, everyone else had decided it was simply something people should help each other carry.

Dangerous.

That thought was profoundly dangerous.

A knock echoed through the house.

Interesting.

The sound no longer surprised him.

This, perhaps more than anything else, concerned him.

"I'll get it."

The child hurried toward the door.

A moment later, he returned accompanied by an elderly man carrying a lantern older than some civilizations.

"I apologize for arriving unannounced."

"That would suggest a precedent exists for announced arrivals."

The old man blinked.

"Fair."

Interesting.

Lucien was becoming increasingly aware that his conversational habits had spread far beyond what was reasonable.

"I've been looking for this place."

"Dangerous sentence."

The old man smiled.

"My wife passed away three hundred years ago."

Silence settled over the room.

"She made me promise something."

Lucien remained quiet.

"She said..." The man's hands tightened around the lantern. "'When you're tired of missing me, find the house with the light on. Tell them I said hello.'"

The room had gone completely still.

Interesting.

That sentence hurt.

He was becoming increasingly tired of sentences.

"What was her name?"

The old man looked surprised.

"You remember names?"

"No."

"That's fair."

He smiled sadly.

"Her name was Mira."

A memory surfaced immediately.

A woman laughing while teaching stars how to dance.

"Do you think love ends?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because people are stubborn."

"That sounds suspiciously personal."

"It is."

The memory faded.

Lucien closed his eyes.

Of course.

Naturally.

"I see."

The old man held out the lantern.

"It stopped burning the day she died."

Interesting.

Lucien looked toward the ancient lantern.

Its flame had long since gone out.

And yet...

Something remained.

Waiting.

Patient.

Hopeful.

Dangerous.

"Would you..."

The old man's voice trembled.

"...would you mind relighting it?"

Silence.

Lucien looked toward Tomorrow.

Toward the house.

Toward the countless lights beyond existence.

Then back toward the lantern in the old man's hands.

Interesting.

He suddenly understood.

This had never been about him.

Not really.

It had always been about the lights.

One person leaving them on for another.

One promise carried forward across impossible distances.

One act of kindness teaching the next.

Lucien gently accepted the lantern.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

Light.

Warm.

Golden.

Familiar.

The old man began crying immediately.

Interesting.

That also kept happening.

"Thank you."

Lucien handed the lantern back carefully.

"I did very little."

"No."

The old man smiled through tears.

"You taught the universe that it's alright to wait."

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

Outside, beyond the first dawn and beyond the stars, six hundred million lanterns burned quietly in the dark.

And somewhere among them, a child was almost certainly telling another lonely soul:

"Don't worry."

"There's always a light somewhere."