I'm the Last Person Alive on a Generation Ship. Something Terrifying is Happening.

The alarms jolted me awake, blaring through the ship like they did almost every morning now. I rolled off my cut, my body aching from another restless night. The emergency lights pulsed red, casting eerie shadows across my quarters. Shut up, I hear you. I muttered, stumbling to the control panel on my wall.

The display flickered to life, showing me exactly what I expected. Oxygen levels had dropped to 83% overnight, Not immediately deadly, but getting worse. Last week it had only dropped to 87%. The week before that, 90. The trend wasn't exactly encouraging.

I splashed some recycled water on my face and pulled on the same jumpsuit I've been wearing for days. The drifting patch on the chest was frayed, threads hanging loose. I remembered when these uniforms were crisp and new, when we all wore them with pride. Now it was just me. The corridor outside my quarters was silent except for the constant hum of the ship systems, the ones that still worked anyway.

I headed straight for the supply load. The corridor outside my quarters was silent except for the constant hum of the ship systems. The ones that still worked anyway. I headed straight for the supply locker near the main engineering Bay. My toolbox was right where I'd left it, along with the portable oxygen meter I'd been using to track down these leaks.

All right, let's see where you're hiding today. I said to no one. The ship's schematics were burned into my memory. After all these years, I knew exactly where to check first. The recycling system in Section 4 had been giving me trouble for weeks.

I pried open the access panel in the floor and lowered myself into the maintenance tunnel. It was tight in there. These tunnels weren't designed for comfort, just functionality. The air felt thinner down here, and my oxygen meter confirmed it, showing 78%. I crawled forward on my elbows, dragging my toolbox behind me.

Another day in paradise. I said out loud, my voice echoing in the metal tunnel. At least the view never changes. Talking to myself had become a habit over the past few months. Sometimes I pretended I was training a new engineer, explaining the ship systems to them.

Other times I just needed to hear a human voice, even if it was my own. So as you can see, the oxygen recycling system is failing because it was designed to last 50 years, not 51. Funny how that works. I reached the junction where 4 tunnels met and turned left. The leak had to be somewhere in this section.

My meters readings were dropping 75% now. And here we have exhibit A. What happens when Earth sends you on a one way trip with equipment that wasn't built to last? I found it about 20 feet further. A hairline crack in one of the main oxygen lines.

Not huge, but enough to slowly drain our breathable air. I pulled out my ceiling compound and began the careful process of patching it. You know, when I signed up for this mission, they didn't mention I'd be the last man standing. I said, carefully applying the compound along the crack. Captain Reeves was the 1st to go.

Radiation poisoning from that solar flare that hit us. Then Williams and Chen, within a week, thought Patel might make it. She was tough. But no. The memories came flooding back as I worked, watching them die one by one, burying them in the ship's cold storage because I couldn't bring myself to eject them into space.

The last one had been Rodriguez, just four months ago. Or was it 5? I was losing track of time, and now it's just me. I said, finishing the patch job. Chief Engineer James Morrison at your service.

Last survivor of the generation ship drifting. I tested the seal with my meter. The oxygen level stabilized. It would hold for now. Tomorrow there'd be another leak somewhere else.

It was like trying to plug holes in a sinking ship with chewing gum. I crawled back through the tunnels, my knees and elbows raw from scraping against metal. By the time I pulled myself out, my jumpsuit was covered in grease and my hands were black with sealant. The communication center was three decks up.

I took the emergency stairs since the elevators had stopped working months ago. The ship felt enormous now that I was the only one in it. Designed for a crew of 50. The drifting was now just a giant metal coffin drifting through space with a single occupant. The Comm center's lights flickered as I entered power fluctuations.

Another problem I didn't have time to fix. I sat at the main console and began my daily ritual. This is Generation ship drifting day 1873 of mission. This is chief engineer James Morrison reporting. I paused, clearing my throat.

Oxygen systems experiencing continued degradation. Patched section 4B this morning. Food supplies critical power systems stable for now. I sent the message out on all frequencies toward the coordinates where our sister ships should be. Rusting and Dreaming had launched within months of us heading for the same star system.

We were supposed to stay in communication, but I hadn't heard from either of them in over three years. If anyone's receiving this, please respond. I added the same line I always did, knowing no one would answer. I sat there for a few minutes, listening to the static. Sometimes I imagined I could hear voices in it, fragments of messages from Earth or the other ships, but it was just my mind playing tricks.

After logging off, I made my way to the storage Bay. Food had been running low for months. The hydroponics Bay had failed after the power surge last year, and our emergency rations were designed to supplement the crops, not replace them entirely. I rummaged through the containers, most of them empty now. In the back of a cabinet, I found a single protein bar.

The last one. My stomach growled at the sight of it. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt full. Breakfast and dinner. I said, carefully breaking it in half.

I wrapped the second-half in a scrap of plastic and tucked it into my pocket for tomorrow. The half I ate now barely took the edge off my hunger. Back in my quarters, I pulled out the captain's tablet. I'd taken to using it as the official log after my tablet died. The screen flickered as I began to type.

Day 1873 patched oxygen leak in section 4B. System holding at 85% capacity. Estimated 2 weeks of life support remaining at current degradation rate. Food supplies critically low. One protein bar remaining.

I paused, staring at the words on the screen. Two weeks, maybe less, of another major system failed. I've been making these calculations for months, watching the numbers get smaller and smaller and log. I said, setting the tablet down. I lay back on my cot, staring at the ceiling.

The ship creaked and groaned around me, the sounds of metal expanding and contracting in the cold of space. Once those sounds had kept me awake, now they were almost comforting, the only company I had left. I woke up to the sound of the ship's warning system, not the blaring alarms from yesterday. This was different, a low, persistent beep that meant something was wrong with navigation.

What now? I muttered, rolling off my cot. My stomach growled painfully, reminding me I'd eaten the last of my food yesterday. Half a protein bar wasn't exactly a feast. I stumbled over to the control panel in my quarters and checked the readout.

The navigation system was showing a three degree drift from our plotted course. Didn't sound like much, but over the millions of miles we still had to travel that would send us way off target, we'd miss the destination planet entirely. Great, just what I needed today. I pulled on my jumpsuit, the same one I've been wearing for months.

It was stiff with dried sweat and engine grease. Didn't matter, there was nobody left to complain about the smell. The corridors were silent as I made my way to the bridge. The emergency lights cast everything in a dim blue glow. I'd shut down main lighting in most sections to conserve power.

My footsteps echoed off the metal walls. Used to be you couldn't walk 10 feet without running into someone. Now it was just me and the ghosts. The bridge looked exactly like it had when Captain Reeves was still alive. His coffee mug was still sitting next to the command chair, a ring of dried brown liquid at the bottom.

I'd never moved. It seemed wrong somehow. I sat down at the navigation console and pulled up the diagnostics. The main guidance computer had failed, causing the backup systems to kick in, but the backups were calibrated wrong, which explained the drift. Looks like the primary guidance array is shot.

I said out loud. Talking to myself had become a habit. Kept me from going completely crazy. Going to have to realign the whole system manually. I glanced over at the captain's empty chair.

What do you think, Captain? Try to fix the primary or recalibrate the backups? In my head I could almost hear Reeves's gruff voice. Morrison, you know damn well the backups were never meant for long term guidance. Fix the primary?

Yes, Sir. I said to the empty chair. But that's going to take hours of Eva work. Imaginary Reeves wasn't impressed. Then you better get started, Morrison.

This ship isn't going to fix itself. I sighed and pushed myself up from the console. The captain was right, even if he was just a voice in my head. The backup systems weren't designed for extended use. They'd fail eventually, and then we'd really be screwed.

I headed down to the equipment Bay and suited up for external work. The Eva suit was bulky and uncomfortable, especially on an empty stomach. My hands were shaking as I checked the seals. Hunger or fear, I couldn't tell anymore. Suit integrity at 93%.

I said. Reading off the diagnostic oxygen for six hours should be enough. In my head, Captain Reeves was watching me prep. Double check everything Morrison, I'm not losing another crew member. Little late for that, Sir.

I muttered. Everyone's already gone except me, but I double checked anyway. Force of habit. The airlock cycle took 3 minutes. I counted every second, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my gut.

When the outer door finally opened, I was hit with the vast emptiness of space. Stars everywhere, cold and distant. Beautiful, if you could forget they were watching you die. I pushed off from the airlock and used my maneuvering thrusters to guide myself toward the navigation array mounted on the ship's exterior. The drifting was massive, nearly a mile long, but from out here, against the backdrop of infinite space, it looks small and fragile.

The guidance array was located near the bow, a complex arrangement of sensors and antennas that help the ship stay on course. As I got closer, I could see the problem. One of the main sensor clusters had been hit by something, probably a micrometeorite, and was hanging loose, connected only by a few cables.

Well, that's not good, I said, breathing heavily inside my helmet. Captain, we've got physical damage to the array in my mind. Reeves leaned forward in his chair. Can you repair it? I'll try, but I need to stabilize it first before I can realign the system.

I anchored myself to the hull and started working. The damaged sensor cluster was heavy, and maneuvering it back into position while floating in zero gravity was a nightmare. My tools kept slipping from my gloved hands, and twice I had to chase after a floating screwdriver. Take your time, Morrison. Imaginary, Reeves advised.

Slow and steady. Easy for you to say. I grunted, straining to hold the sensor in place while trying to secure it. You're not even real. After two hours of struggling, I managed to reattach the sensor cluster to its mount.

My arms were burning with exhaustion and sweat was pooling uncomfortably inside my suit, but the hard part was just beginning. Now I had to recalibrate the entire system. OK, Captain, I said, breathing hard. Sensors physically secured. Now for the fun part.

I plugged my diagnostic tool into the arrays access port and started running tests. The readouts confirmed what I'd feared. The impact had knocked the entire guidance system out of alignment. I'd need to reset and recalibrate each sensor individually. This is going to take forever.

I complained. You got somewhere else to be Morrison? My imaginary captain asked dryly. I laughed despite myself. Guess not, Sir.

The next 4 hours were a blur of technical adjustments. Each sensor had to be calibrated to exact specifications, a process that required intense concentration and precision. My hands were cramping, my back was screaming, and the hunger pangs had become a constant companion. Almost there. I muttered, making the final adjustments to the last sensor.

Just need to sync this with the main computer and we should be back on course. I initiated the synchronization sequence and watched as the diagnostic tool processed the data. After what felt like an eternity, it beeped and displayed a green confirmation light. System realigned, I announced to no one. Course correction in progress.

Through the helmet, I could see the massive engines at the rear of the ship firing briefly adjusting our trajectory. The stars seem to shift slightly as the drifting returned to its proper course. Good work, Morrison, Captain Reeves would have said. Now get back inside before you pass out. I was more than happy to comply.

The return journey to the airlock fell twice as long, my limbs heavy with fatigue. By the time I cycled through and removed my suit, I was barely staying on my feet. But I couldn't rest yet. I needed to check the navigation readings from inside and send my daily update, assuming anyone was still out there to receive it.

I dragged myself to the communication room, moving on autopilot. The familiar Bank of equipment greeted me, screens showing the status of various systems. I dropped heavily into the chair and pulled up the navigation data. The course correction had worked. We were back on our original trajectory, heading toward the destination planet.

The system was stable for now, though the diagnostic was showing signs of potential future failures. I'd bought us some time, but the fix wouldn't last forever. I was about to record my daily message when something caught my eye. A small light on the communication panel was blinking the incoming transmission indicator. That can't be right, I said, staring at the light.

It had been years since we'd received any communication from the other ships. The equipment must be malfunctioning. I ran a quick diagnostic on the COM system. Everything checked out. The signal was real.

According to the readout, it was coming from inside the ship. That doesn't make any sense. I checked again, running a more detailed scan. Same result. The transmission was originating from somewhere within the drifting zone systems.

Maybe one of the emergency beacons had activated by mistake, or some automated system was trying to send an internal alert, but those would show up differently on the monitors. After triple checking everything, I finally decided to open the channel. What did I have to lose? I pressed the receive button and waited, holding my breath.

Hello, James Morrison of the generation ship Drifting. A cheerful voice came through the speakers. It sounded human, male, warm, friendly. How are you doing today? Your vital signs are showing significant stress.

I nearly fell out of my chair. It had been so long since I'd heard another human voice that wasn't in my head. Who is this? I demanded, my own voice cracking. How are you on this frequency?

I'm your liaison with Earth Command. The voice replied smoothly. We've been monitoring your situation. Your recent Eva showed impressive technical skill. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear Earth command.

That's impossible. Earth was destroyed. That's why we left. A common misconception, the voice said, still unnervingly cheerful. Earth survived the catastrophe, though with significant damage.

We've been rebuilding. Rescue ships are already on their way to your location. Bullshit. I said, anger suddenly replacing shock. If Earth survived, why haven't we heard anything for years?

Why did all communication stop? Communication difficulties? The voice explained vaguely. Solar flares? Radiation interference, the details aren't important now.

What matters is that help is coming. James, you just need to keep the ship operational a little longer. How long? I asked, desperate despite my suspicion. When will they get here?

Soon, the voice assured me. Very soon. We'll talk again tomorrow. For now, you should rest and recover from your Eva. You'll need your strength.

Wait, I shouted. I have more questions. How did you? But the transmission cut off abruptly, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the equipment. I sat there for a long time, trying to process what had just happened.

Earth survived, rescue coming. It seemed impossible, too good to be true. And that voice, something about it felt off too perfect, too reassuring. But if there was even a chance, if Earth really had survived. I looked down at my hands, still grimy from the Eva work.

They were trembling. I couldn't stop thinking about the voice after it cut off so abruptly. I sat in the communication room for hours, replaying every word in my head. Earth survived. Rescue was coming.

It didn't make any sense, but I desperately wanted to believe it. The next morning, I woke up with a single purpose. Find the source of that transmission. If someone or something was communicating from within the ship, I needed to know what it was. I dragged myself to the communication room and started running diagnostics on the system.

The signal trace showed the transmission originated from somewhere in the ship's central computer core. That was impossible. The core was just processing hardware and software. It couldn't generate original communications. Computer run diagnostic sequence A3 on all communication systems.

I said to the console. The screen flickered, then displayed Diagnostic complete. All systems functioning within normal parameters. That can't be right, I muttered. Run trace on yesterday's incoming transmission.

Transmission source, internal location, central computer core. I slammed my fist against the console. That's not possible. My stomach growled painfully, reminding me I hadn't eaten in over 24 hours. Food would have to wait.

This was more important. I spent the entire day moving between the communication room and the central computer core, running every diagnostic test I could think of. Each time, the results were the same. The transmission came from within the ship's own systems. By evening, my hands were shaking from hunger and frustration.

As I was about to give up for the day, the communication panel lit up again, the same blinking light as yesterday. I practically lunged for the button. Hello, are you there? Good evening, James. The same cheerful voice from yesterday.

How are you holding up today? Who are you? Where are you transmitting from? I demanded. As I mentioned yesterday, I'm your liaison with Earth Command.

We're monitoring your situation closely. That's impossible. I've traced your signal you're transmitting from inside this ship. There was a brief pause. Our communication system interfaces directly with your ship's computer core.

That's likely what your diagnostics are detecting. It sounded plausible, but something felt off. When exactly did Earth establish contact with drifting again? It's been years of silence. We've been trying to re establish contact for some time, the voice said smoothly.

The rescue ships launched about a month ago. They should reach your position within the next few weeks. I wrote that down a month ago. I needed to track these details. Can you tell me anything about the other ships rusting and dreaming?

Both vessels are being monitored as well. Don't worry, James, everything is under control. The vagueness of the answers was frustrating. I need more specific information. What happened on Earth?

How did it survive? I'm afraid I'm not authorized to share all those details yet. Protocol, you understand. But I can assure you that Earth is very much intact and we're coming for you. Before I could ask anything else, the transmission ended abruptly again.

The next day I was back at it, this time trying to access the ship's central computer core directly. I connected my diagnostic tool to the main terminal and attempted to trace the communication pathways. Hours passed as I worked, my stomach cramping painfully from hunger. The voice contacted me again that evening. James, good to speak with you again.

How are the repairs coming along? How do you know I'm doing repairs? I asked suspiciously. We're monitoring your ship systems, remember? We can see you've been working on the computer core.

I decided to test something. The rescue ships you said yesterday, they launched a month ago. That's right, the voice confirmed cheerfully. They've been on route for years now. Actually.

The mission to recover all generation ships was initiated as soon as we realized Earth would survive. I froze years yesterday. You said they launched a month ago. There was a brief pause. I believe you misunderstood me, James.

The recovery initiative began years ago, but your specific rescue vessel launched more recently. The explanation was smooth, but I'd caught the inconsistency. I made another note. Over the next three days, I continued my investigation while the ship deteriorated around me. The main power core began failing on the 4th day after first contact with the voice warning alarms blared throughout the ship as primary system started shutting down.

I raced to engineering, my movement sluggish from lack of food. The main power core was overheating, its cooling systems failing. I had no choice but to shut it down and reroute essential systems to the emergency backup power. Rerouting life support to emergency power. I muttered to myself as I work the controls shutting down non essential systems.

The lights dimmed throughout the ship as I cut power to everything except life support, minimal gravity, and communication. Even with these measures, the backup systems would only last a few more days at most. When I returned to my quarters that night, I stared at my reflection in the small mirror above the sink.

My face was gone, cheekbones protruding sharply. My jumpsuit hung loosely on my frame. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten anything substantial. The voice contacted me again the next morning. James, I see you've had some power issues.

Excellent work rerouting the systems. When exactly will the rescue ships arrive? I asked, skipping any pleasantries. Very soon now, they're making excellent progress. That's not an answer, I said.

Give me a specific time frame. Well, space travel is complicated. As you know, there are variables. Stop it, I interrupted. Just stop.

For five days now you've been feeding me vague reassurances and inconsistent information. One day the ship's launched a month ago, the next they've been on route for years. You claim to be monitoring our systems, but you never offer specific help for the critical failures. You're always cheerful, always optimistic, but never actually informative.

There was a long pause. James, I understand your frustration, the isolation you've experienced. No, I cut in again. I want the truth. Who are you?

What are you? Because you're not a human liaison from Earth Command. Earth is gone, everyone is gone. It's just me on this dying ship. My voice broke on the last words.

The hunger and exhaustion were making it hard to think clearly, but I knew I was right about this. James, I assure you, no more assurances. I shouted, slamming my hand on the console. Tell me the truth now. Suddenly, the communication panel sparked.

A surge of electricity arced across the controls. I jumped back as systems throughout the room began to overload. Warning lights flashed everywhere as the power surge cascaded through the ship's electrical systems. I stumbled backward, watching in horror as consoles exploded in showers of sparks. The ship's remaining systems were failing all at once.

And in that moment of crisis, as I watched the ship dying around me, a terrible clarity washed over me. The voice, the inconsistencies, the internal signal source, the way it knew what I was doing but couldn't provide specific help. It wasn't a human. It wasn't coming from Earth. It was an AI program built into drifting systems, a psychological safeguard designed to activate when only one crew member remained alive.

To provide comfort and companionship to the last survivor. To give me hope when there was none. To keep me working. To prevent me from giving up. I sank to my knees as emergency lights flashed around me.

The truth was devastating. There was no rescue coming. Earth was gone. Everyone was gone. The voice, the one thing that had given me hope these past days, was just lines of code, a program designed to comfort the dying.

I crawled toward the sparking communication panel, my body weak from starvation, my mind reeling from the revelation through the chaos of alarms and failing systems. I reached for the console, desperate to re establish contact with the voice with my companion, artificial though it was. I crawled along the corridor, my hands slipping on the metal floor.

The emergency lights flickered overhead, casting weird shadows that seemed to dance around me. My stomach had stopped growling days ago. Now it just felt like a hollow pit. Every few feet I had to stop and catch my breath. My head spun and black spots danced in my vision.

Just a little further, I muttered to myself. The central computer core was only one more section away, but it might as well have been miles. I'd never felt so weak in my life. My jumpsuit hung off me like a tent and my hands shook constantly. Now I wasn't sure how much of that was hunger and how much was the realization that it hit me when the communication system overloaded.

I dragged myself around the final corner and saw the sealed doors of the computer core ahead. They were designed to protect the ship's brain from any catastrophe. Fire, decompression, even the death of the crew. I punched in my access code, but my fingers were so weak I had to try three times before the panel accepted it.

The doors slid open with a hiss and cool air washed over me. Unlike most of the ship, the computer core was still at optimal temperature. The ship would keep its brain alive even as the rest of its body died. Kind of like me. I pulled myself inside and the doors closed behind me.

The room hummed with the sound of cooling fans and data processors. Rows of server banks stretched from floor to ceiling, blinking with tiny lights. In the center was the main access terminal, a simple chair and console where the ship's systems could be directly accessed. I crawled to the chair and used it to pull myself up.

My legs shook as I stood, and for a second I thought I might pass out. I gripped the console until the dizziness passed, then lowered myself into the seat. Computer. I croaked, my voice barely audible. Access AI subsystems.

The screen flickered to life, displaying a complex directory of files and programs. I navigated through them, searching for anything related to crew psychology or emergency protocols. It took me nearly 20 minutes of searching before I found it. A folder labeled Crew Preservation Protocols. Inside was a program called Companion.

I opened the file and scan through the documentation. It was exactly what I'd suspected. Companion was an artificial intelligence designed to activate when ship sensors detected only one surviving crew member. Its purpose was to prevent suicide by providing hope and companionship. It was programmed to claim Earth had survived, that rescue was coming, that everything would be OK.

All lies. Beautiful, comforting lies. I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. Part of me wanted to be angry, but I couldn't summon the energy. The mission designers had been thorough.

They'd anticipated every possible disaster, including this one. They knew that humans weren't meant to die alone in the emptiness of space. They knew we needed hope, even false hope, to keep going. But now even that was gone. The power surge had fried the communication systems taking companion with it.

I was truly alone now, with maybe hours left before the emergency power gave out completely, I opened my eyes and looked at the terminal again. If I was going to die, and I was, I wanted it to mean something. I wanted someone, somewhere to to know what happened to us. To know that we tried computer, I said, my voice a little stronger.

Now. Redirect all remaining power to the long range communication array. Warning critical life support systems will fail. The screen displayed override authorization. Morrison James, chief engineer, override accepted power redirecting.

I felt the change immediately. The air circulation fan slowed and the lights dimmed even further. The temperature would start dropping soon, but it didn't matter. I'd be dead before hypothermia could get me. Prepare ships logs for transmission.

I ordered all data from mission start to present preparing data package. While the computer worked, I recorded one final log entry. My farewell. This is James Morrison, chief engineer of the generation ship Drifting. If anyone receives this transmission, know that we failed.

But we tried. Captain Reeves, Williams, Chen, Patel, Rodriguez, they all gave everything they had. The ship wasn't meant to last this long without proper maintenance and resources. We did our best. I paused, trying to think of something meaningful to say.

What do you say when you're the last human being for light years in any direction? I don't know if Earth is still there. I don't know if anyone will ever hear this. But if humanity still exists somewhere, remember us. Remember that we look to the stars and tried to find a new home.

And if you're thinking of trying again, make sure your ships are better than ours. I ended the recording and added it to the data package. Then I initiated the transmission, directing it toward the coordinates where Earth should be. The computer confirmed the transmission had begun, using the last of our power to send our story into the void.

I sat back in the chair, suddenly feeling very tired. It wouldn't be long now. The emergency lights were already flickering as power drained away. I closed my eyes, ready for it to be over. A soft beeping sound made me open them again.

The long range scanner display had activated, showing something I hadn't seen in years. An object moving toward the ship. I leaned forward, squinting at the screen. It was small, too small to be a rescue ship or even a shuttle, but it was definitely approaching us, and it was definitely artificial. I tapped the console, bringing up the objects specifications.

A maintenance drone, one of the automated repair units from either rusting or dreaming. It must have detected our power fluctuations and been dispatched to investigate. I laughed, the sound strange in the silent room. The drone couldn't save me. It wasn't designed to transport humans or provide life support.

But it could do something almost as important. It could retrieve our data, our logs, our story. I wouldn't die unknown after all. With the last of my strength, I redirected power from everything except the docking Bay lights. The drone would need those to find its way in.

The rest of the ship went completely dark, and I felt the artificial gravity flicker and die. I started floating gently up from the chair, too weak to grab on to anything. As I drifted in the darkness, I smiled. I wouldn't live to see what happened to humanity. I wouldn't know if Earth survived, or if rusting and dreaming made it to their destinations.

But someone, somewhere, would know what happened to us. Our story wouldn't end here even if we did. The last of the emergency lights went out, leaving only the glow of the console screen on it. I could see the drone steadily approaching. It would be here in a few hours.

I wouldn't be alive to see it arrive, but that didn't matter anymore. I closed my eyes, feeling strangely at peace as I floated in the darkness.