What Grows First
I woke up to a sky that did not know my name.
For a long moment, I lay still and listened, half-expecting the world to react to my presence, to acknowledge me in some way. It did not. The air was thin and dry, carrying no scent I could recognize, and the ground beneath me was cold, cracked, and older than any place I had ever known. There was no pain in my body, no confusion strong enough to make me panic, only a quiet certainty that whatever had happened before was no longer reachable by simply thinking harder.
Silence ruled everything, and I learned quickly that silence was not kindness.
Hunger came before fear. It was not sharp or desperate, but steady, like a reminder ticking away in the back of my mind. I stood, brushed dust from my clothes, and noticed with mild surprise that my movements felt precise, economical, as if my body already understood how much energy it could afford to waste. I did not question it. I had the sense that questioning would slow me down, and slowing down felt unwise.
The land around me was scarred with wreckage. Twisted metal ribs jutted from the soil like the remains of colossal skeletons, half-swallowed by time and dust. I did not yet understand what kinds of ships they had been, but I understood that they were ships, and that they had died here long ago. The thought settled calmly, without horror, as if my mind had already placed it in a category labeled important, but not urgent.
I followed movement rather than sound.
The creature was small and fast, its body low to the ground, its muscles built for sudden acceleration. It fed on tough, fibrous plants near a broken hull section, darting its head up every few seconds to check its surroundings. I crouched without thinking, my breathing slowing, my focus narrowing until there was nothing in the world except distance, timing, and outcome. When I acted, it was quick, almost gentle, and when it was over I remained still for several seconds, letting the reality of it settle properly instead of pushing it away.
I did not feel proud.
I did not feel guilty.
I felt fed.
Processing the carcass felt unsettling for reasons I could not fully name. My hands moved with certainty I did not remember earning, separating muscle from bone, setting aside parts my instincts marked as unsafe. I understood preservation without having to reason it out, and that disturbed me more than the act itself. Knowledge had taken root in me quietly, without introduction, and I did not yet know whether it intended to stay.
It was while gathering more food that I noticed the plants.
They grew in stubborn clusters where the soil was thin but stable, pushing through cracks in the ground as if refusing to accept the planet's long history of destruction. Tall stalks bore dense grain heads that reminded me of wheat, though smaller and tougher, adapted to harsher light and poorer nutrients. Nearby, knotted plants hid starchy tubers beneath the surface, not quite potatoes, but close enough that my mind grouped them together without hesitation.
Then I found the red ones.
Low to the ground, clustered beneath broad leaves, they looked almost fragile, and for a moment I thought I was imagining the familiarity. I tasted one carefully, expecting bitterness or toxin, and instead found something balanced and unmistakably edible. I sat back on my heels there, dust on my hands, red juice on my fingers, and allowed myself a quiet breath of relief. The universe, it seemed, had not decided to starve me yet.
The idea of a greenhouse formed fully in my mind before I consciously decided to build one.
The wreck I had chosen as shelter was poor for living but excellent for salvaging. Transparent panels, once meant for sensors or observation, still carried light cleanly. Structural frames, bent but unbroken, responded readily when I persuaded them into new shapes. I selected a spot close enough to reach easily, but far enough that a collapse would not bury me in my sleep.
I built slowly, not because it was difficult, but because it felt important to do it right.
I angled panels to catch the sun at different points in the sky, anchoring them with scavenged supports driven deep into the ground. Airflow mattered. Moisture retention mattered. Soil depth mattered. I adjusted everything with quiet focus, already thinking in cycles rather than moments, in yield rather than survival. When condensation finally formed on the inside of the panels, I felt something in my chest loosen.
Planting felt almost ceremonial.
I pressed seeds and tubers into the soil with care, spacing them precisely, already planning replacements and expansions without consciously naming them as such. Water was rationed, but not withheld, and when I sealed the structure and stepped back, I knew this place had crossed an invisible line. It was no longer just where I slept.
It was where things would continue.
That evening, as I ate cooked meat and roasted tubers near the shelter, my gaze drifted again and again toward the wreckage on the horizon. I no longer saw only ruins. I saw frames, internal volumes, and shapes that could be something else. Small ships at first, then larger ones, all half-formed in my imagination, waiting patiently for the moment I decided to reach for them.
I did not know where I was.
I did not know how I had arrived.
But as the greenhouse warmed behind me and the stars sharpened above, I allowed myself one quiet certainty.
I would not remain alone forever, and when I left this place, I would do so in something I had built with my own hands.