They called her the last pioneer, though she never claimed the title. Titles were for people who wanted to be remembered, and Mara only wanted to arrive.
When Earth folded in on itself—quietly, like a sigh—she was already halfway to Kepler-442b. Her ship, The Resolve, had been built for two, but her co-pilot chose to stay behind, saying the stars were too far and too lonely. Mara didn’t argue. She’d always preferred silence to conversation.
Years passed. Decades, maybe. The clocks stopped syncing after the thirtieth sleep cycle, and she stopped caring. She planted basil in recycled nutrient gel, recorded a log each morning, and listened to the hum of the ship as if it were breathing with her.
Then one day, the sensors blinked. Blue and green, just as the models had promised. A world still waiting to be named.
She landed without ceremony. The air was sharp and clean, the sky two shades brighter than her memory of home. When she stepped out, her boots sank into soft moss, and she laughed—because it felt absurd that something so alive could exist after everything else had ended.
She pressed her hand to the soil, warm beneath her palm. “Hello,” she said.
The wind answered, low and curious, carrying the scent of salt and something sweet.
For the first time, Mara thought maybe “pioneer” wasn’t about being first. Maybe it was about choosing to begin again, when there’s no one left to watch.
Therapy Bits 
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