This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Im_yor_boi on 2025-06-25 17:55:19+00:00.
I was supposed to die in that cryopod. I knew it when I volunteered. Knew it when they strapped me in and patted me on the shoulder like a good little martyr. I was meant to be a footnote. A necessary gamble. One life for the chance that Gaia would work.
But somehow, I’m still here. Still waking. Still waiting. Still the last pair of human eyes to witness Earth’s slow, aching revival.
I wake every thousand years. The metal walls sweat condensation, the blinking lights of the monitoring station flicker like tired fireflies. My body creaks, my bones protest, but my mind—my mind sharpens like a blade each time I emerge. I run the checks. I test the air, the water, the soil. I whisper to Gaia’s broken machines and beg them to keep going just a little longer.
I send the report: “Not yet suitable for human life.”
Then I slide back into the cryopod. I sleep. I dream of things I’d rather forget.
I remember launch day. I remember Genesis tearing through the sky, a silver spear carrying the last scraps of our species. They left everything behind. They had to. Earth was dying. Choking. Ruined. We had scoured the stars, desperate, and found nothing but hollow imitations. Planets that pretended to be alive. Grey sands. Poison winds. Air so thin you’d suffocate just thinking about breathing it. Cold suns that cast no warmth. Cheap copies. Mockeries.
Earth—even broken, even gasping—was still more beautiful than all of them combined.
I stayed behind to give her a chance. I thought I could forgive humanity if Gaia worked. I thought I could save them.
Three thousand years passed. The sky remained heavy, the oceans still black with poison. I sat by the silent pumps, listened to the drip of stagnant water. I could hear the groaning metal of my machines, worn, exhausted. I began to hate the sound of my own breath. Still, I sent the message: “Not yet suitable for human life.”
I wondered then, if anyone was still listening.
Four thousand years. A breeze pushed the ash. Thin, frail. The water moved, sluggish but moving. Little creatures—tiny, silver—danced in the shallows. Life was clawing its way back. Gaia’s machines were failing. The work was now Earth’s alone. She didn’t need us anymore. But I still sent the message: “Not yet suitable for human life.”
Ten thousand years. The sky cleared. The sunlight came through, soft at first, then golden. The rivers sang again. My machines had fallen silent. Their work was done, or abandoned. But Earth— Earth kept healing.
I could smell grass.
“Not yet suitable for human life.” I sent the words. And they believed me.
Twenty thousand years. Green crept across the ruins. Vines swallowed skyscrapers like they were nothing but old bones. The air was sweet. I could walk outside without a suit. I watched foxes hunting in the skeleton of a city street. I told Genesis: “Not yet suitable for human life.”
The truth snagged in my throat, but I swallowed it down.
Fifty thousand years. Earth was… Perfect. The forests hummed. The lakes shimmered. The animals returned, not as we knew them, but close enough to make my chest ache. The sun warmed my skin as I sat by a tree I didn’t plant. The wind kissed my face.
I lifted my hand to the transmitter.
I could have said it.
I could have whispered into the dark: “Come home. You can come home.”
But instead— “Not yet suitable for human life.”
The words left me like a prayer.
Because they don’t deserve it. They left. They gave up. They poisoned her, gutted her, and then turned their backs when it got too hard. They scattered like rats across the stars, looking for something better. But there is nothing better. There never was. Earth is irreplaceable.
I want them to ache. I want them to feel the weight of exile in their bones. Let them drift in the cold, chasing illusions. Let them crawl through dust and choke on the thin breath of distant worlds.
They will remember Earth. They will remember the rivers, the forests, the blue skies they abandoned.
But they will not return.
Not until I say so. Maybe not ever.
I am the gatekeeper now. And maybe that’s not what they asked me to be—but that’s what I’ve become.
I tuck the lie into the message. I encrypt it tight, like a secret no one else can hold. I seal it, I send it.
I walk among the trees. I watch the birds. I let the grass bend under my feet.
Sometimes I talk to myself. Sometimes I talk to Earth.
Sometimes, I think she answers.
I return to the cryopod. The cold welcomes me like an old friend. I lay back. I smile. I whisper to the silence: “Stay away. Stay away. Stay away.”
I’ll wake again in a thousand years.
And I’ll send the same message. Again. And again. And again.
Because maybe they’re not ready. Because maybe I’m not ready to forgive them. Because maybe I never will.
Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
Not ever.