4338.208 · July 27, 2018 AD
The Words We've Yet to Write
Eight people. One fire. Butter chicken. And a song no one remembers learning.
The day draws toward evening, and everyone gathers around the fire pit.
The settlement has grown faster than anyone planned. Two days ago, there were four people and a dead man. Now there are eight, plus three dogs, plus the weight of decisions that won't wait any longer. Someone has to manage supplies. Someone has to build roads. Someone has to figure out how to stop the dust from swallowing everything they're trying to create.
Arguments happen. Tempers fray. Butter chicken helps — but only until someone has to do something they don't want to do.
Then the sun dies in spectacular fashion, and a raspy voice finds a melody that shouldn't exist. A violin joins without ever having heard the song. And for one brief moment, the firelight holds something fragile and unexpected: the shape of what they might become, if they survive long enough to become it.
