Lydia was nearing the final stretch of her long journey through life. Despite having lived well—perhaps even beautifully—she couldn’t shake the feeling that she might have done some things differently. Time was slipping away. Today, she and her granddaughter, Roza, visited the clinic, where she heard the words she had expected yet still found surreal: her body was reaching its end. Even with the most advanced treatments, aging had finally outrun medicine.

  But Lydia felt no sorrow. Instead, she felt a quiet, radiant joy as she prepared to depart for the cosmic colony known as the Cylinder. The Cylinder rotated around its axis, generating centrifugal force that mimicked the gravity of Sirius. It was a vast space station, illuminated by sunlight captured through panels and a system of mirrors that directed the rays inward. Thanks to this, the Cylinder sustained its own energy, ecosystems, and crops.

  It had been created for a single purpose: to give elderly Seirians a place to live out their final days without taking up precious space on Sirius. A kind of artificial world where the body and mind were separated. The human brain was placed into a virtual reality, while the physical body—no longer useful—was kept alive only through artificial means. Despite their scientific brilliance, the Seirians still couldn’t overcome the ultimate boundary: the point at which the organic body could no longer regenerate.

  Many Circles—Sages, Creators, Innovators, Inventors—were running countless projects aimed at achieving organic immortality, but every attempt ended in failure. Lydia had heard rumors of a figure within the Network of Geniuses who was close to success: someone attempting to fully transfer personality and memory into a server housed within a robotic body. But the idea unsettled her deeply. She would never willingly submit to such an experiment. Something inside her whispered that the Creators never intended for physical beings to live forever.

  Lydia remained loyal to the invention of her youth. Back when she and her husband were still young, full of ideas, and working in a team belonging to the Circle of Preservation—a group tasked with preventing overpopulation on Sirius. Even then, there were too many of them. It was during those years that the first Cylinder was launched into space. Initially, it was meant to be a planetary imitation: self-sustaining, fertile, powered by its own energy, capable of drifting through space for hundreds of thousands of years without returning to Sirius.

  But problems soon emerged among the Seirians who lived there for more than two years, and the project was handed over to their team. They struggled with the issue of aging and the elderly. There simply wasn’t enough space for them. The Cylinder had another flaw: without a protective atmosphere, cosmic radiation increased the risk of mutations and cancers. Life inside was monotonous—nutrient-rich but repetitive food, no horizon, no true nature. The knowledge that they would never return to their home planet caused severe anxiety and neuroses.

  Everything changed when scientists discovered that the brain could be connected to a virtual world long-term. The problem began to solve itself. Special chambers were built inside the Cylinder, where bodies were placed and sustained by machines. The brain, however, was transferred into a virtual reality shaped by the person’s own memories and experiences. Illnesses, discomfort, fear—none of it existed there. Robots handled everything, supervised remotely from Sirius.

  Old age became an opportunity: a chance to live one’s life again, but this time with all the knowledge and wisdom already earned. Lydia’s final journey promised to be extraordinary.

  In this world, she would be able to be born anew. To relive her life from the beginning, making every choice again—but with the experience she carried now. That was the program she had chosen. At any moment, she could switch to another environment if she wished. As long as her brain showed no anomalies, her body would be kept alive. And when her mind began to fail, the appropriate medication would be administered to help her pass peacefully.

  Roza held her hand tightly as they left the clinic. Lydia had always believed her granddaughter possessed an extraordinary beauty—perhaps unmatched among all Seirian women. Long, thick, pale?blond hair framed her delicate silhouette, and her large green eyes, flecked with brown, shone on her fair face like two deep lakes.

  Yet Roza showed none of the family talents. Much to her mother’s disappointment, she had no interest in science or new technologies. She read, listened, watched—but she didn’t test, didn’t create. She only observed. She displayed no aptitude for any of the disciplines established by the Seirians. Most people around them found this puzzling, even worrying.

  But anyone who felt Roza’s hand slip into theirs and met her gaze understood instantly that there was something more to her—something deeper, something impossible to define. The aura she carried was unique, unmistakable. Sensitive Seirians experienced strange emotional states in her presence, sometimes even uncovering their own hidden weaknesses. Lydia knew that since childhood, Roza had sensed the greatest secrets of those around them. The only person she could never reach was her own mother. And that, Lydia knew painfully well, caused the girl deep sorrow. Roza understood she had disappointed her mother, failed to meet her expectations.

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  Roza’s mother belonged to the Circle of Sages and traveled constantly across Sirius for lectures and official duties. The Seirians were in the midst of colonizing their moon, and every Circle was in a state of heightened activity.

  “Grandma… will I be able to visit you?” Roza asked, her voice trembling with the weight of the news they had just heard.

  “Not physically, my dear. I will miss you all terribly. But the virtual world I’m going to is meant to feel so real that I won’t be able to leave it,” Lydia replied gently.

  “And if I really need you? If something bad happens?” Roza’s grip tightened, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Nothing bad will happen. You’ll be happy. And before you know it, you’ll find yourself in my place.”

  “Grandma… I have a bad feeling. Deep inside, I know I’m going to need you. Really need you.” Lydia understood. Roza needed comfort, something to hold on to. Lydia had been more of a mother to her than anyone else, and their bond was nearly impossible to sever. She sighed, feeling her own sadness rise at the thought of leaving this still?young, but already grown woman behind.

  “Roza, sweetheart… our bond is so strong that if something truly, terribly wrong happens, try to reach me telepathically. Send me a signal in the form of this poem:

  ‘In the hour that strikes, in the minute that fades, in the second that follows— hold on, hold on. Do not let the winds take you, do not let the fire break you, yield to the water’s wave to touch the solid Earth. You, strong and wise— come to me, support me, stand with me in moments dark and moments bright.’

  She looked at her granddaughter, searching for confirmation that she had memorized it. Roza only nodded and added softly:

  “Wear the amulet I gave you. It will protect you and help me reach you. It’s charged with my energy. I believe in the strength of our connection, in the mind’s vast abilities. I know it will help us communicate. Just don’t let them take it off you.”

  “Roza, your mother says those amulets—”

  “It doesn’t matter what she says. What matters is what I feel, Grandma. Please. I know you don’t want to contact me telepathically, but inside I feel that you’ll need to.”

  “All right, all right. I’m sure it won’t be necessary. Come here.” Lydia pulled her into an embrace. How she wished Roza would finally grow out of these childlike intuitions and visions—these strange notions that filled her mind. If she did, she might finally join the Circle of Awareness, the Circle she had been initially assigned to at birth. But her candidacy had been rejected because of her attachment to magic, ritual, and belief. Such things were unacceptable in a world built on science and self?understanding.

  ***

  Two days later, Roza stepped into the Garden of Music. Grief pressed heavily against her chest — the raw ache of losing the person she loved most. Her grandmother had been farewelled through a global broadcast, with many members of her Circle speaking about her achievements. Roza’s mother, Katrina, had spoken first.

  Her words still echoed painfully in Roza’s mind:

  “Dear Seirians, in these times we live in, I can say that I see the image of a modern world — unified in language and driven by constant progress. We, the Seirians, are defined by our care for our planet. We seek balance between technological advancement and environmental preservation. We can harness energy from our sun and use it to travel freely across our galaxy, and soon we will settle our moon. We can access more of our brain’s potential and extend our lifespan. We can create virtual realities and worlds, and transfer human consciousness into them. But we cannot control time. Nor mortality. Today, we are reminded that permanent farewells still touch us. The passing of Lydia, my dear mother, is a tremendous loss of unrealized potential. Throughout her life, she contributed to many remarkable projects that strengthened our society. Thanks to her, we can now experience old age with dignity. We can only hope that her energy remains with us and supports the generations to come…”

  Roza still couldn’t accept that Lydia would no longer be by her side. From the beginning, she had struggled to find her place in a world obsessed with curiosity and improvement. Here, the core values were education and continuous intellectual, spiritual, and emotional growth. Her path had been defined since childhood: art, technology, science, philosophy. Everyone around her embraced diversity and new perspectives. Many people expected extraordinary abilities from her — drawn by her appearance and the strange aura she carried. She feared their disappointment, which always appeared sooner or later in their eyes.

  She was constantly compared to her mother, Katrina, a renowned specialist, and that comparison weighed on her like an invisible burden. But Roza didn’t feel extraordinary. She didn’t even want to be. She just wanted to be left in peace.

  She stopped in front of a screen displaying musical sessions — some lasting up to two days. Music was used primarily to repair biorhythms and brainwave patterns. She felt she needed that kind of support. Most people heard music, distinguished sounds, and focused on the emotions and vibrations that supported their bodies, rhythm, and balance.

  Roza saw music.

  She possessed a strange mathematical ability that allowed her to arrange sounds into countless equations — building worlds, galaxies, even generating DNA. She couldn’t name it, but in her mind, music formed intricate structures, unfolding endlessly with every tone.

  She selected a session and was about to walk toward the sparkli — the sound?emitting devices — when she froze. Something inside her pulled sharply, directing her toward a figure sitting on a bench. She approached and stopped before a tall, slender person with short dark hair. Their facial features were sharp, making it difficult to determine their gender.

  “My name is Liu,” the figure said calmly, “and I know why you came to me. Don’t worry — you’re not alone anymore. I’ll stay with you.”