A small god once lived far out among the hidden objects that plied the stardust between galaxies. They were not a handsome god, nor an ugly god; not an intelligent god, nor an ignorant god. They were neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, powerful nor weak. They were, as gods went, plain and humble.

They were, though, quite lonely.

Their home was a hollowed-out comet that had through the whims of gravity been cast from the system of its creation. They’d found it alone, looking for a companion, and had stepped upon its surface and made it part of Their existence. It served as a bedroom and a vessel, carrying Them through the darkness, leaving a long tail behind whenever They passed close to a star.

Each day They stared out of the craters of Their comet into the vastness of space and wondered about others like Themself. Did They exist? What where They like? Did They live on solitary comets and eat the radiation of stars to fuel Their bodies? They would spend long days, weeks, years dwelling on the questions, but found no answers in the pinpricks of light They stared into. Then They might sleep for a while—a few days, or a millennium—and They would dream of the Others. The Others were handsome and powerful and loving and sensual—so many things They were not—and They would wake to a remembrance of beautiful hair, strong muscles, smooth, perfect skin. They would long for the Others, then—and sometimes return to sleep immediately to dream some more.

One century They woke from a long slumber and found Their asteroid had drifted into a star nursery. Brilliant, blazing balls surrounded Their home, washing Them in blue and yellow and red light. They rubbed the sleep from Their eyes, casting the seeds aside to become tiny new asteroids that joined Their growing armada of little worlds. As They and Their fleet drifted near one star, They reached out to touch it. They dragged Their fingers through its plasma, and it shifted its course at Their touch. Slower than They, but trailing Their little world in the emptiness behind. They tipped Their head to the side and pondered its motion, saw the way it repositioned itself and formed a new pattern among the old one.

They had an idea.

They moved through the field of stars and touched each in turn, until Their fingers blackened with the heat. They laughed then, for it was the first time They felt something other than the nothing that came before, the cold that stretched through infinite memories. It was pain They felt, yes, but it tickled Them that such could be experienced. This was new and different, and They felt Their heart beat faster.

Six hundred and thirty-three thousand years later, Their fingers had burned away. Their body was scorched by the heat until They were as dark as the void between stars. They completed the great work and moved on upon Their little world, healing as time passed. Out of the star nursery and into the void once more, looking back as the many balls of plasma shrank and became pinpricks of light again, until They could read the patterns They had made.

“Hello,” the stars read. “Is anyone there? I need you.”

They waited for an answer.