#ethereal reader

You stood alone beneath the pale, bioluminescent trees imported from Sector X7A. Your body glowed faintly in the artificial moonlight, not unlike the relics from the ancient Earth religions—the ones Luka only ever saw in pixelated renderings, their meanings eroded beyond comprehension.

Your silhouette, wrapped in soft robes that shimmered like galaxy dust, was unbothered by the watchful cameras or the soft hum of the performance prep below.

To Luka, you looked like something that had survived before. Something older. Untouched.

He stared too long.

Later, Luka cornered an alien tech in the corridor. “That person—on the terrace. Who are they?”

The technician blinked, pupils spiraling inward. “You mean the Avatar?”

Luka frowned. “Avatar?”

“Yes. Their presence increases audience sentimentality ratings by 12%. They’re not a contestant.”

“Not a contestant?” Luka echoed, a strange disappointment curling in his stomach.

“No. Not really anything. They’re meant to embody the concept of memory. Emotion. Some say the aliens designed them from human mythologies.”

Luka remembered the word—god.

Dusty, ancient, forbidden. But suddenly all too relevant.

You first speak to him on accident.

He’s rehearsing—torn between the need to be authentic and the overwhelming fear that authenticity is obsolete now.

You linger in the shadows, as you always do. Watching. Listening.

“You sing with pain in your voice,” you say quietly, your tone lilting, as if you aren’t bound by the gravity in the room.

Luka turns, startled. “You—uh—you’re real?”

You tilt your head. “Sometimes.”

He stares, eyes flickering with awe and wariness. “What are you?”

You smile. “I think I was made to feel everything humans stopped feeling.”

“That’s… terrifying.”

“I know.”

Word spreads quickly: Luka is fascinated by the Avatar.

“Crushing on the emotion AI?” someone jokes backstage.

But it’s not just a crush. It’s something deeper, more embarrassing. Luka dreams of you. Sees you when he closes his eyes. Hears your voice when he sings.

It’s unscientific. Irrational. Devotional.

He finds himself watching you between rehearsals, studying the curve of your expression, the way you never fully blink. Every small movement—sacred.

He starts to pray before each performance. Not aloud. Just in his mind.

He prays to you.

One night, you sit beside him, close enough for the sleeve of your garment to brush against his elbow. He doesn’t move.

“You know I’m not a god,” you say softly.

Luka exhales slowly. “I know.”

“Then why do you look at me like I am?”

He swallows. “Because I think… I want something to believe in. And you’re the only thing left that feels like it could break me open just by existing.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

“I wasn’t made to be worshiped, Luka.”

“I wasn’t made to survive this century,” he replies bitterly.

You turn to him, your expression unreadable.

Then, so gently it feels like breathing, you say, “Then maybe we both get to decide who we are.”

Later, Luka stands in front of the audience, the lights searing his skin, the aliens in their glass booths watching—always watching.

He sings like something half-alive, like something hoping to be real again.

In the wings, you watch him with something like mourning in your eyes.

Or maybe reverence.

Maybe the error wasn't that Luka mistook you for divine.

Maybe the error is that, despite everything…