You find the container right where Wallace's coordinates told you it would be. You open the tupperware and see the remains of the object, notice that the pieces have degraded even further, that they're more like shavings now, thin and brittle. You know there's no use in trying to glue them back together, for not even enough material remains to match the size of one of your eyes, let alone two and let alone anything sturdy or lasting. You let the object shards slip out of your hand, and you walk upstairs to your bedroom, dejected. You crawl into bed, pull the covers up close to your chin, and even manage a small smile as the dog curls up next to your feet as usual. Good old dog, always predictable and dependable. You've never really liked change much. It scares you. You like things to stay the same, a desire that pulses through your veins now along with the growing fear as you notice things start to go dim. You try to see the bright side of all this, think how you'll have no choice but to embrace sameness - your furniture will have to stay in the same spot for the rest of your life. Your world will be small and familiar. You'll never have to see new things. Ever. You keep your eyes open wide as they can, stubborn to take in the small bit the world has left to offer.
