4338.205 · July 24, 2018 AD
Furrows in the Dust
Every object Luke carries through the Portal tells two stories—the practical need it fills, and the life it's being torn from. As the settlement's first tent rises against an alien sky, Luke finds himself caught between moments of fragile connection and the quiet calculations running beneath them.
There's something almost ceremonial about dragging a shovel across untouched ground—a line scratched into infinity, proof that you were here, that you existed, that you left your mark on something vast and indifferent. Whether that mark is creation or scar depends entirely on who's telling the story.
Luke is learning to navigate the rhythm of life between worlds: the constant shuttle through the Portal, the accumulation of supplies, the small victories of tent poles standing upright and canvas pulled taut. But every crossing carries more than equipment. Jamie's shirts, folded with careful precision into a suitcase. Paul's unwavering faith, offered freely and received with the quiet awareness of how easily it could be spent. Duke's confusion at the door, watching luggage appear and disappear without understanding why his people keep leaving.
The settlement is taking shape. The tent stands proud against the alien skyline, almost like belonging, almost like home. Yet beneath the progress runs a darker current—the recognition that control and care aren't always the same thing, that love and leverage can wear identical faces, and that the man doing the carrying might be changing faster than the world he's trying to build.
