When I awoke, the snow was already gone.
This was the one hundred thousand and thirty-second year I had spent in cryogenic suspension. The hatch opened without a sound, as though reluctant to disturb something long at rest. The air was warm and moist, free of disinfectant or metallic odor, and for a moment I was seized by a strange illusion—that I had merely slept through an ordinary night.
The person who came to receive me stood outside the chamber. Her appearance differed almost not at all from the people of my own era—limbs, features, skin, even the familiar curvature of a smile. And yet the smile showed no emotional modulation, like the surface of a perfectly still lake.
“Welcome back,” she said. “You have rested long enough.”
I had expected a future beyond recognition: alien cities, unfamiliar forms of life, humanity rewritten beyond recall. But nothing seemed changed. Streets were still streets. The sky remained blue. The Sun rose along its ancient orbit.
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