It was a clear day. At least that’s what it looked like. The sky above was perfect and blue, as it was every day. On this day, fluffy clouds filled the sky: puffs of cotton suspended high in the air. There was a slight breeze, enough to rustle the leaves and set the grass to waving. Birds sang in the trees. Fish jumped in the streams. But it was fake. All of it.

He went through his usual morning routine. After a hot shower, he put on his suit, tied his tie. He shaved, combed his hair. He checked his phone, scrolling idly over coffee and cereal. For people with nothing to do, his friends always had plenty to say. All of it trivial, nothing worth actually saying. He’d turn on the television in his kitchen, if only for background noise. At 8:50 sharp he gathered his briefcase, pocketed his phone, and grabbed his keys on his way out the door.

“Good morning, Veld!” his older neighbor called as he walked out the door. His house, like Veld’s and all the rest, was painfully cliche. Aluminum siding, false shutters, wide front porch and picket fence, all painted in generic pastels and white.

“Morning, Onus,” Veld replied.

“Early start today, huh?” Onus replied, pointlessly. While Veld was fully dressed, he was still in his pajamas beneath a plush robe, with fluffy white slippers shaped like rabbits.

Veld walked briskly to his car. “Yeah, Onus,” he replied, irritated. “Just like every day.”

“Working hard, or-” Veld closed his car door before Onus could finish his sentence. He didn’t need to hear the rest. His neighbor could just as well record their morning exchange and play it on a loop. It would save time.

Veld’s car started quickly and ran smoothly, as always. He pulled out of his driveway, and proceeded down the boulevard. His drive took him through a slice of Americana: white picket fences, people walking their dogs, paperboys delivering newspapers everyone received and never bothered to read. They could save time by simply throwing them away as soon as they arrived.

Above, the sun was rising in the southern sky. The clouds were thicker, as though it might rain. As though that were possible. The birds and the squirrels went about their daily routines as well, all blissfully unaware that none of it was real. But he knew.

Veld knew this, even though he didn’t know what real was. Real, as best he could describe it, was what others had. Others who had planets. He had never known Earth. For him, the Helion was all he’d ever known. This was life. This was his world. But it was hollow.

Though he could peer high into the clear sky above, he knew it was an illusion. Projectors generated the image, set across a massive display. It was vast, but finite. And while the landscape around him appeared bucolic, it, too, was a facade. Below the soil stretched deck after deck of purifiers and filtration systems, recycling the water, the air, even refreshing the soil. And all to keep a small simulation of Earth alive.

Ten minutes of driving through light traffic, and he arrived at his office. It was as nondescript as his house: a squat, tan commercial building with rows of windows extending a modest five stories up. He parked, gathered his briefcase, and walked inside. He didn’t bother to lock his car. Most did. He didn’t see the point. No point in stealing something everyone else had.

Inside there was idle conversation between other men and women in suits like his. They all appeared busy, as though anything they did was remotely important. They were always in a hurry, everyone, even him. As though they had someplace to go. He rushed to his desk through a gauntlet of useless conversation.

“Morning, Veld! Catch the game last night?”

You mean the same game they show every Thursday night? The one played decades ago, the one he’d seen hundreds of times?”

“Hey, Veld! So I’m reading this book, have you-”

Of course he’d read it. Everybody had. Nobody had written a book in his lifetime.

“So, did you hear Ev and Lago are seeing each other? Sounds like they’re an item!”

Pairing off and reproducing, like good animals in a zoo. Like an endangered species was supposed to.

It was a two and a quarter minute walk from the front door to his office, three tops if he stopped for coffee. As soon as he entered, he closed the door and locked it. He’d boot up his computer, and be greeted by a dozen or so emails. All of them work-related, none of them important. Most of his coworkers likely didn’t even know what they were doing each day. Compiling expense reports for a company that did nothing. Submitting reports to a corporate structure that didn’t exist. None of that held any value to him. He wasn’t content to keep up the charade. Instead, he’d spend his work hours researching.

There wasn’t much information. Most of their history, beyond bland cultural nonsense, had been lost to time. Nobody cared enough to preserve it. They existed simply to exist: to keep their species going. Veld had never met a Valen. He’d never even seen one. But he knew more than most did. He knew they’d built the Helion, almost fifty years earlier. He knew they’d promised to find humanity a new home: a fresh habitable planet, one without a dying ecosystem and a ruined climate. And he knew that promise remained unfulfilled, possibly simply because no one aboard the ship seemed to care.

Were they watching them? Did flocks of Valen tourists press against unseen glass behind the imaginary sky? He could only speculate. But he knew this: for humans, survival wasn’t enough. Their species would not survive without someone left who dreamed of more. And if no one else was willing to do it, he alone would carry the flame. It was the only useful thing he had to do.