Records claim I was born somewhere in the outer territories.
Those records are wrong.
I remember oceans called the Atlantic and the Pacific. A blue world we called Earth. A modest yellow star we filed under Sol.
My last clear memory of that life is a laboratory in Kuala Lumpur — an experimental facility chasing gravitational anomalies. There was a flash. Spacetime folded like a damp origami. Then... absolute silence.
I woke drowning in pod fluid, adrift where the stars are unfamiliar. Historians here argue over a past they only half remember. Debating something called the EVE Gate — a wormhole that once tethered this cluster to a lost cradle world. They disagree over timelines and the origins of mankind.
I ignore the noise. I lived there.
Now I wear the skin of a capsuleer, a humble peregrine flying over empires that rose from the ashes of forgotten colonies. The tech here is centuries beyond what I knew; the people are not. Ambition. Greed. Curiosity. Survival. Some things don't fossilize.
The anomaly took everything — my era, my coordinates, my world.
New Eden. They say it like it means a fresh start. To me it reads like the final chapter of a story I refuse to end. So I chew through Ice and rock listenening for a signal. And if the shattered gate truly once opened toward home — then somewhere beyond those dead stars,
Earth is still out there. Still blue. Still waiting.