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Abby stares at the television. The forty-two inch OLED model is way outdated, her children keep trying to tell her, but she still hasn't thrown it away. If it works, it works. It has stayed with her through all the worst years, it felt too much like throwing away a limb to replace it. It can still catch the proper airwaves to tell her the same news every channel is reporting right now.
“Granny, look! The flowers! They bloom, like your pictures!” Cassie yells. Abby cranes her neck to look out of the living room window. Her granddaughter is jumping around outside. She shrieks in glee at every other flower she inspects in their home’s yard. Spring is here the way it hasn't in a long, long time. Cassie is not the only person who went outside to admire the view.
“I told you they're beautiful,” Abby yells back. She is distracted again, though, by what the television is showing. Cassie makes a frustrated sound at her apparent inattentiveness. A few of the neighbor’s kids lift her mood quickly enough by whatever game they invited her to. The festive mood doesn't escape even their parents, who are also outside their homes for one reason or another. Chatting, an adult’s own excuse to hang out.
The green of leaves and the rainbow of flowers and the melting of snow is novel for them.
The large headline on the television Abby can read even without her glasses says: Earth’s savior died far from home.
There is a static picture next to the announcer sharing his condolences. Dr. Ryland Grace. It’s a graduation photo, at which stage of his education Abby is unsure of. He looks very young. When you have lived through a literal apocalypse, everyone not around your age feels acutely young.
He doesn't look at all like the junior high science teacher that Abby remembers.
The news scene changes, then, to show footage of early development of Project Hail Mary. A supercut of Dr. Grace’s life work, complete with voiceover. The man sitting near the head of a conference table looks more like the teacher who would throw beanbags at her when she answers correctly. She is sure she still keeps some in the attic. Ultimately a useless relic that can never be cashed out for small snacks and storybooks. She has never denied her sentimental nature.
Yes, she remembers. He is one of the very few early education teachers no student can forget. How can anyone? His class makes you actually want to ask questions. It makes you want to understand how the world works. And he will answer, every time, with full seriousness, at whatever questions they throw at him. And he will make them understand.
Abby remembers that her class loved him as much as their seniors did. Then one day, he disappeared. The other teachers said he found another job and he doesn't teach little kids anymore. Then one day, they found out what new job Dr. Grace took from the news: he was going to space to save the sun.
And now the news is telling her that he has died, far from their sun.
She wonders how old he was, accounting for the time dilation. Would they be around the same age? That is a little haunting. Abby remembers how she used to see him almost as a figure who knows everything. Maybe the rest of his crew felt like that, too. Maybe the rest of their Earth still feel that way. Father of Astrophage, Savior of the Sun, First Contact.
Humans love to name things, and there is a notion going around of how people are calling this comeback of spring the Gift of Grace period. Way better than Ice Age the Sequel, of course.
Abby mutes the TV when they move to just recapping Dr. Grace’s beetle logs. Everyone has heard about that. She puts on her glasses and slowly unlocks her phone. Her hands are no longer steady, and the device her son just bought her is one of the newer models she isn't as familiar yet, but eventually she manages to open the current social media app. Right above the all-capped #SPRINGISHERE hashtag, the number one trending: #FromGraceToStars.
She clicks the link. Posts upon posts of people reminiscing about Dr. Grace, how he played a role in their lives, how they admire him, how they looked up to him. Someone posted about how their mother was part of the Hail Mary team, and attached a photo along with their paragraph. It looks like it was taken after a team party. Dr. Grace raises his beer along with everyone else. His glasses sit in an awkward angle of hanging from one ear and sitting on his neck on the other end. He smiles crookedly at the camera.
The next post that interests her is a repost of a link titled From Rocky, for Earth in Grace’s Stead.
Her fingers never stopped trembling. Not for years, anyway. She opens the link.
Some time ago, Grace informed me of an Earth culture, where companions would leave parting words for their deceased. Eulogy. Autobiography. They are all kind of the same, he had said, in that specific tone Grace used when it definitely has deeper nuances but he did not feel like explaining. I studied his laptop afterwards, of course, and I eventually understood the different ways they are used. And I have to agree with him, I do not see a difference. In the first place, us Eridians do not share that culture. I could not quite grasp why speaking would ever be part of a grieving process. When an Eridian dies, ultimate silence is how we mourn.
I have experienced several deaths during my lifetime. When my crew died, on that first journey to Tau Ceti, the ship, floating alone in space, felt like it could kill me with its own silence. It felt the same, right now. All around Grace’s home right here is a silence so wide it feels like it could swallow you.
How many of you back on Earth are talking to grieve him when you hear the news, I wonder?
I know Grace had never quite warmed up to using the quantum communication we developed to contact Earth directly, even though it is about as efficient as your version of sending a text message. You can easily hear from the rest of us on Erid, but you never had a chance to hear from your one human living here. If this is a cause for resentment, I hope you can forgive him. You know he is the furthest from ever forsaking you. For what it is worth, we offered him means to go home years ago. As Eridians, we are immensely grateful for his help to save our planet; we would do, and hopefully had done, our very best to accommodate all his wishes.
As Grace’s friend, however, I had asked him to stay. I will not ask for Earth’s forgiveness upon my selfish desires. Afterwards, he had shared with me some things in confidence about his departure from Earth, which only further convinced me of my stance. But you have my word that it was ultimately Grace’s choice in the end.
I am writing and sending this message in English for the convenience of Grace’s people. I am using a lot of advanced words and the structure of your language which I never thought I would ever have the chance to learn and implement, when I first connected a tunnel from my ship to an alien spaceship in a solar system far away from our then-dying star. Without Grace, I never would have survived. But I am sure enough of you have sung heroic praises for him. It would be true, but it also would be insufficient. Ryland Grace was a crewmate, a companion, a friend. My best friend. He loved solving science problems and he loved teaching little kids and, most importantly, he loved life.
One of Grace’s last wishes was to not be returned in a ship back to Earth, if the option was ever viable or if the people ever asked for it. To quote his words, “It’s not that I don't miss Earth, I just had enough of interstellar travel in my lifetime.” I am inclined to agree with him. We had conducted the rites he requested for his final rest here on Erid.
Back when we struggled to communicate, he had named me Rocky in his language. So, here I am. My name is Rocky, from Planet Erid of the 40-Eridani system. I am sending this message on behalf of Dr. Ryland Grace: hereby reporting to Earth the completion of Project Hail Mary.
I hope your new spring is as beautiful as the old photos. Grace said it was his favorite season. I think nothing would fit him more. So much life growing anew.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
Abby removes her glasses and roughly wipes her eyes with her sleeves. Her vision is still blurry but she can see her son’s concerned face in front of her.
“Yeah,” she croaks. “It’s the pollen, I think. Been too long.”
“Okay,” David replies dubiously. He offers her a few tissues from the table. She blows her nose and sniffles a little bit more.
She clicks her phone off and puts it on the coffee table. She turns the TV off. Outside, the sky doesn't suddenly turn into a snowstorm.
“I want to see the flowers,” Abby says. Before she can push from the couch to get to her wheelchair, David is already helping her up.
“You just said it was the pollen,” David mutters with a shake of his head. He still gently sets her on the wheelchair and starts pushing.
Abby laughs. It still sounds a little wet, but she’ll have time to compose herself before Cassie takes notice. She knows David is still concerned, but she also knows her son won’t push just yet. “I’ll take that risk.”
Outside, spring is as beautiful as she remembers.