They said it would be in a few hours.
The broadcast,the one that would change everything.
I sat alone in my small apartment, lights off, screen on. All over the world, people were screaming, laughing, crying. It was the first time in history that every nation on our planet, every government, admitted to something no one could ignore: someone, something, had contacted us.
And the message… came in the form of a video. A woman. Human. Alone.
She wore a long, dark coat ,one a scientist might wear ,standing in front of strange technology. She spoke for nearly an hour, her mouth moving gently, eyes focused. We didn't understand a word. But somehow, it didn't matter. She wasn't just talking,she was teaching.
The linguists scrambled. I didn't wait. I had always been ahead. A genius, they once said. But what good is being brilliant in a world that no longer excites you?
I had been drifting,lifeless, directionless. My childhood dreams of exploring the stars had faded into dust. I used to imagine racing through asteroid belts, speaking with alien creatures, discovering entire civilizations. But when I grew older and learned how endlessly silent the universe was… I stopped dreaming.
But now, she was here,on my screen, in my mind. Her face. Her voice. Her eyes filled with a strange, tired hope.
By the fourth message, everything changed.
It wasn't a lesson this time.
I didn't understand the words, not fully, but I could feel it. The rhythm, the tone, the expression,she was no longer teaching. She was talking to us. To someone. To me, I thought.
When it ended, I sat frozen for minutes, barely breathing.
And then I worked.
I didn't sleep. Didn't eat properly. Every second was a calculation. A pattern. I returned to the first three messages with a mind sharper than it had ever been. And slowly, the fog began to lift.
A week later, I could speak her language. Not fluently,not yet,but I understood her.
And when I finally watched the fourth message again with that understanding, I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Alive.
"Greetings," she said, her voice calm, rehearsed. "I'm from a planet called Earth. I don't know who, or when, will receive this message. But if you are out there… I beg you. Please. Help us."
I smiled. Wide. My heart swelled with purpose.
But then she continued.
"My people… we are dying. I may be the last person alive. Or one of the last. An unknown disaster struck our planet, and we barely survived the first wave. But it's coming back,stronger. Ten times stronger. If no one helps us… there will be no one left to remember we ever existed."
My smile faded.
The joy drained out of me like air from a cracked helmet.
No. No.
I played it again.
And again.
Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I translated something wrong. Maybe the desperation in her voice was something I projected.
But the more I listened, the more I understood.
She wasn't reaching out for connection. She was screaming for help.
And we… we were too far away to even whisper back.
The fifth message arrived exactly two weeks after the fourth.
It had become a ritual now.
People gathered around their screens, streets emptied, debates raged across networks, and conspiracies flourished. But I didn't care about any of that. I cared only about her.
She wasn't teaching anymore. She was speaking. Her voice was clear, soft, almost conversational.
"Hey," she began, her lips curling into a tired smile. "If anyone's still listening… I guess this isn't a lesson today. I just wanted to talk."
I leaned closer to the screen, holding my breath.
"Humanity is… complicated," she said, glancing off-camera. "We built cities that kissed the clouds and devices that cured diseases. We argued over petty things, sure, but we also wrote symphonies, painted galaxies, fell in love with strangers."
She chuckled faintly.
"I used to think we'd last forever. That we'd spread across the stars like seeds on the wind. Turns out, forever isn't as long as you think."
In the sixth message, which came nine days later, she looked different—her face thinner, eyes sunken, but her spirit somehow still shining.
"I had a dog when I was little," she said, grinning nostalgically. "His name was Rolo. He was this lazy fluffball who loved eating socks. I used to think that if aliens ever showed up, Rolo would be the one to greet them,with a sock in his mouth."
She sighed, voice cracking a little.
"I don't know if anyone will ever hear this. Maybe this'll drift in space for eternity, just bouncing around dust and silence. But I figured… maybe I could make a record. Like a diary in a bottle."
She looked straight into the camera.
"I want you to know our names. My name is Dr. Lena Moreau. My mother's name was Evelyn. My father's was Marcus. My best friend was Zara. She hated olives. Loved stars."
I blinked hard.
"She used to say, 'The universe isn't empty. It's just shy.' I hope she was right."
By the time the seventh message arrived,a week and a half later,I had stopped functioning like a normal person. Sleep came in two-hour intervals. Meals were often forgotten. All I thought about was the messages,the slow dripping of a story across the stars.
In the seventh video, Lena sat cross-legged on a dimly lit floor. The lab or studio she recorded in had grown darker, almost abandoned.