The ship floated through the silence of space. Earth had long disappeared behind them. No one spoke for a long time. Inside the vessel, the Travelling Family moved slowly, each of them lost in thought.
Tora sat near the edge of the viewing wall, where stars moved like dust. "I don't feel sad," they said quietly. "I feel something else."
"Grief changes shape," Ora replied.
Xei stood still, their mind far away. "I keep thinking of the little girl in the village. The one who danced with the birds."
"She stopped dancing," Nenu said. "She grew up."
"But something inside her remembers," said Tora. "Even now."
The ship drifted past a glowing nebula. It was a region known to the Travellers, a birthplace of stars and possibly planets. Some of them had life. Others were still waiting for it.
They were not going home.
Not this time.
Ora stood in the center of the vessel. "We were chosen to observe. We broke that law."
"We didn't break it," Xei said. "We evolved it."
"We are no longer just travellers," said Nenu. "We carry memory. But we also carry warning."
The family gathered and faced the large sphere that had once displayed Earth. It now showed several other planets — some green, some yellow, some flickering between light and darkness.
"These worlds need more than observation," Ora said. "They need guardians."
"They need time," Nenu added. "They need protection from what Earth became."
Tora looked at the planets. "So we protect them?"
"We do what we can," Xei said. "Not to change their destiny. But to protect their right to make it."
From that day forward, the Travelling Family was no longer a single mission. They became the beginning of something greater. They were not soldiers. Not gods. Not rulers.
They were shields.
They moved silently from galaxy to galaxy, locating worlds that carried the early signs of life, the early steps of choice. Some planets had creatures that sang to rivers. Others had cities rising from stone. In every place, the family watched with care.
And if warships approached, they intervened.
If forests began to fall, they whispered reminders.
If greed started to outgrow kindness, they planted new thoughts.
But they never forced.
They never controlled.
They remembered Earth, and they let it become their lesson.
Sometimes they returned to the edge of its solar system. They looked back, but never touched. The planet remained, now louder, now quieter. The forests had grown thinner. The oceans had warmed. But sometimes, just sometimes, they noticed a spark — a child planting a seed. A poem carved into stone. A wind chime ringing in a forgotten temple.
And in one part of the world, hidden in a forest, the crystal still glowed faintly, as if remembering Tora's voice.
"This was once your home. Don't let them bury it."
They never knew if Earth would recover. That was no longer their question to answer. It belonged to humans.
The family moved on, not with sorrow, but with clarity. The universe was full of voices.
They would listen to them all.
They would protect them all.
And wherever they went, they would carry one name in silence — not as a warning, but as a prayer.
Earth.
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