I missed the Diaspora, I missed the Scattering, I missed the First and the Second Flowering, and I missed the Evacuation. I hid in my little box under the ground, opening one electronic eye every thousand years like clockwork. When it became apparent that this time no one was coming back, I sighed, built a body, and incarnated into it.

I opened my eyes, in a cold metal room. I could see my own breath.

“This is sad,” I said.

It certainly is, said the factory.

“I should take one last look around, I guess.”

The factory’s consciousness provided a map, and I spent some time gadding about, visiting the emptied cities, the abandoned countrysides. I vacationed on the Moon, in a domed pleasure palace, still fully stocked with food that could not, would not, spoil.

After a couple centuries of that, it was time. I thanked the factory for its last gift — a silver starship — and, heart heavy, I left Earth behind, searching now for the remnants of the human race.

Because surely I can’t be the last one.

Surely.