They voted at dawn.

  Three wanted to step into the well. Two refused. Voss broke the tie.

  “We die human,” she said.

  The Lumen’s light dimmed to near-darkness. It lingered at the colony’s edge, its silhouette trembling like a guttered candle.

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  “I am sorry,” it hummed. “I sculpted galaxies… yet I cannot sculpt you.”

  Before it vanished, it left one final gift: a tiny star, no larger than a pebble, embedded in the sand. When Voss touched it, warmth flooded her veins. Her radiation sores faded. Her breath steadied.

  But when she slept, she dreamed of its memories—a billion lives, a billion failures, a billion lights snuffed out by its love.

  In the morning, she found Renn dead.

  He’d clutched the star to his chest. His body was pristine, untouched by decay… but his eyes were gone. Hollow sockets stared upward, filled with bioluminescent moss.