We Are Small, and We Go On

A Final Reflection by Commander Shepard

I. I used to believe in orders. Lines. Mission parameters. A clean chain of cause and effect. You act. Things change.

But then the sky cracked. Planets died. And belief felt like a paper shield in a hurricane.

II. How do you carry the deaths of galaxies in a single voice? How do you grieve when the names are numbers, and the numbers never stop?

I’ve seen whole civilizations turned to dust before I could even learn their stories. And I still gave the order to press forward.

Does that make me right? Or just the one who was still breathing?

III. We were never meant to shape the stars. We are dust. We are instinct and fear and a flicker of fire held too tightly.

And still— we pushed forward. With rifles. With reasons. With hope so thin it could barely hold its own weight.

And yet— it held.

IV. Some nights, when it’s quiet enough, I hear the voices. Of crew. Of enemies. Of those I couldn’t save. And they do not scream. They ask.

Was it worth it?

And I never say yes. I just whisper— We tried.

Because sometimes, that’s all we can do. And sometimes, it’s enough.