I
I stood where he stood. My fingers traced the lines. Big horn sheep, mountain lion, shaman, woman, water. Desert varnish chipped away, a story left behind. Done so long ago I could only guess at the tale: vision or hunt, seen or dreamed? As for the storyteller himself, only the ancestors can say. But standing here, touching the stone as if I could draw the story out into my fingertips, I think I remember.

II
The science library. Not just starry books, but those of the chemist, biologist, naturalist. On a whim I pulled a volume from an earlier century and wondered if one day my little book would be here; not knowing if the place or the order would even remain. Where do the books go to die? Perhaps in the fiery furnace of inevitable supernova. Would some other ancients, some other planet chronicle it in stone as you did?

III
Running my hands across the rock wall sliced open a memory long forgotten. The blackest of night skies intertwined with starlight, strands of wool in a fine Persian rug, tight and seamless. Hidden within, shards of glass drawing blood that cannot be seen. Like the storyteller of old, the question, the one without answer, remains – Will you remember me?