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My father is a great man.


Fourteen years ago he was sent on a solo mission to be the first man ever to travel through a wormhole, located a massive distance from Earth. His return was unguaranteed, but he was prepared to make the sacrifice. I was twelve when he left our planet to explore the Great Unknown, not knowing when or if he would return. It took seven long years for his craft to reach the edge of the wormhole, and we prepared ourselves to never hear from him again.

Nine minutes after his spacecraft breached the wormhole a single message was received before transmission was cut: “Don’t trust it”. The cryptic message was dismissed as interference and I made peace with the fact that I was never to see him again.

That is, until five weeks later when the signal came back online. His ship had returned from beyond the wormhole and was traveling back towards Earth intact. Seven anxious years more, and his ship touched down in the ocean. I was already a grown man with a wife and a family, and it had been more than fourteen years since I saw him.

The cryo-sleep had slowed his aging, and he looked barely a day older than when he left. However, something seemed not right about him; he was not the man I remembered. His eyes had lost their spark, his mouth had lost its signature grin, his neck had lost its mole.

And I can’t stop thinking about the transmission, received seven painful years ago. “Don’t trust it”

My father was a great man,

But that thing is not my father.


Credits to: thinstick

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