I placed Tariel in a chair before a table abundant with food, aromatic and softly lit, making the dishes seem almost alive. Jazzia rarely prepared so many options; it was a clear gesture of care, almost a silent request for Tariel to believe again that the world could be gentle.

  The ship had a Chef — machines capable of executing any recipe with absolute precision, as long as the ingredients were natural. The Sekvens had rejected artificial food and the consumption of animals, but Jazzia had made an exception: there were fish. Tariel and I still needed animal protein.

  She looked at the table with a mixture of fascination, fear, and hunger, like someone who no longer knew whether she still had the right to desire.

  “You can eat whatever you want,” I said, unhurried.

  She reached out too quickly, almost instinctively, taking a yellow fruit I didn’t recognize. The first bite drew a tear from her — and the second drew another. With each flavor she rediscovered, her tears fell more freely, more honestly. She looked like someone breathing for the first time after years of suffocation. And, without realizing it, I was crying with her.

  It was a devastating and beautiful scene. AX and Jazzia, my constant companions during meals, remained silent, uncomfortable in the face of emotions even they could not decipher.

  Among the thousands observing us from afar, each species would react differently: the Sekvens would absorb the affectionate intensity of that moment; the Xerantos, accustomed to suffering, would merely register it; and the Miliamedes… well, they were probably all crying with us.

  Everyone there would love Tariel — but that would not be enough to save her species. They saw her as an individual, not as a people. And if I was right, the Selium were as beautiful as the Sekvens, as close to us humans, that allowing their extinction would be an ethical violence.

  And, ironically, we were so alike — humans and Selium — that without external intervention, both were doomed to failure. Nature had not been generous to us.

  I sat beside her, poured a glass of orange juice, and handed it to her in silence.

  “Delicious… What is this?”

  “A fruit from Earth. Orange,” I replied, wiping her tears with the care of someone touching something fragile.

  She tasted everything for nearly an hour. I wanted to hear her voice, understand her thoughts, but I respected the silence she seemed to need.

  When she finally set the utensils down, AX approached.

  “Tariel, I will administer some medications. For pain, inflammation, and anxiety,” he said, in that objective tone that sometimes sounded almost human.

  She looked at him with deep exhaustion, but smiled — a grateful, vulnerable smile.

  “Done,” AX stated. “Implanted directly into your heart.”

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  “Now rest. Both of you are exhausted,” Jazzia ordered.

  “She always knows what she’s saying,” I murmured.

  When I stood up, Tariel raised her arms toward me. She didn’t need to speak. I picked her up — and although I would never admit it, that gesture always affected me.

  The room was warm, comfortable. I laid her on the bed, arranged the sheets and pillows, and lay down beside her. We stayed on our backs, staring at the luminous ceiling, each trapped in our own thoughts. I rested my head on the pillow; she hugged hers as if it were holding the world together.

  “Tariel… after what you went through with humans, can you trust me?” I asked in the dark.

  “What choice do I have? You were the only one who offered me support. You brought me back when I had already given up. You asked for nothing… yet. Even if you abandon me… or kill me… I accept it.”

  My chest tightened.

  “Don’t say that. I apologize for my species. The humans of Donna have completely lost themselves. They are no longer human. They are monsters.”

  “Sometimes I think I’m already dead,” she said, her voice breaking. “And that all this is just the last dream before the end.”

  She had no hair. The smooth skin of her scalp reflected the dim light. It wasn’t shaved — it was absence, a mark of what she had endured. I touched her chin and made her look at me.

  “If you need to feel safe, you can lean against me. You can wake me if you have nightmares. You’re not alone anymore. You won’t be.”

  She turned slowly, moved closer, and hugged me. Her head on my shoulder, her arm firm around me.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She fell asleep like that. I remained still; I didn’t have the courage to move her away. After a while, I fell asleep too.

  The night was harsh. She trembled, clung to me, screamed — and woke repeatedly, always checking if I was still there. Near dawn, her body finally relaxed.

  “Intense night,” AX commented when he noticed I was awake.

  “She was very frightened.”

  “And you were too. I administered sedatives to both of you. It was necessary.”

  “Thank you, AX.”

  He left. I stayed watching Tariel sleep until she opened her eyes, startled and lost.

  “No, you didn’t die,” I said, touching her head. “And you’re not dreaming. Good morning.”

  She sat up slowly, leaning against the headboard. I stood.

  “You stayed with me,” she said.

  “I will always stay by your side, Tariel.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you.”

  Accepting that — no matter in what sense — made the feeling solid, real. The Sekvens say there is only one kind of love, universal and indivisible. Perhaps that was true.

  “Breakfast is ready,” Jazzia announced.

  “Tariel,” I continued, as we walked, “when I ran through that square, even with everything happening, I thought of nothing but reaching you. There was no logic, no reason. I just needed to reach the star that was calling for help.”

  She smiled, extended her arms, and I carried her to the table. Freshly baked bread filled the air.

  “Are there no more humans here?” she asked, biting into the bread.

  “Just me.”

  “Then who takes care of all this?”

  “Jazzia and AX. They move through space-time with ease. And we have robots for the rest.”

  We ate while talking. Jazzia explained how the bathroom worked, the video room, the toys, and the ship’s tools. AX spoke about his functions: protection, communication, companionship. He could access the entire known Universe, send messages anywhere.

  “I only have you,” Tariel said, with a fragile smile. “I was kidnapped as a child. I remember nothing.”

  “Faro said you’re over seventy years old,” I commented.

  “I have no idea how old I am.”

  “Tariel is thirty-seven,” AX corrected. “A child, for a species that lives more than a thousand years.”

  “She has the face of an angel,” I joked.

  “I’m not a child,” she replied, crossing her arms.

  “Technically, adulthood for your species begins at twenty-two Donna years,” AX added.

  Before she could respond, Jazzia’s voice echoed:

  “Mirtis has arrived.”

  And another voice sounded through the system:

  “Greetings. This is the ship Mirtis of Shoros. We are initiating contact.”