Here’s another response I wrote to a visual prompt. Those of you who have read my first novel will notice I am liberally borrowing names from that work. What can I say? I’m lazy.
Za’ahana would never go back. None of them would. He was the last. He took one long, last look at the bending station that made real-time communication across the galaxy possible. None of the people living on Darj would need it anymore. The last of the Others had stopped talking long ago. Darjians had kept the station running for a generation, waiting in vain for another transmission. Now, the station would finally fall silent forever. Za’ahana finished his shift at midday, same as always, only this time there was a difference. No relief technician was waiting to take his place at the console. Instead, Za’ahana simply powered off the equipment, turned off the generators, left the building, and walked down the narrow, long, winding path that led to his village. It didn’t seem right, but it was really happening. It felt wrong to give up on the Others. Their last transmissions sounded frantic. Darjians never completely understood the Others’ language, but enough was gleaned to deduce that the Others were being attacked by an inexorable, invading force. Their messages had become angry, then panicked, and finally profoundly sad, leading to the final transmission, a message that sounded more like weeping than anything else.
As Za’ahana gazed at the dead station, his eyes became glazed with tears. He blinked and his attention was drawn to a star, a star that was particularly bright and strangely unfamiliar. Was it new? Was it a star at all? Brightness grew and then slowly faded as light from the Others’ destroyed sun finally completed its long, torturous journey across space, finding its way into the eyes of the last Darjian messenger, bringing a final message.