Daniel Harris lay on his bed, propped against silk pillows, a bowl of cold noodles resting on his stomach. The food had lost its heat hours ago. He ate it anyway, slowly, without much interest, eyes fixed on the television mounted across the room.
The broadcast had been running all evening.
A special edition panel filled the screen; heads of state, trade officials, researchers with carefully neutral expressions. Titles appeared beneath each face, rotating as the debate shifted. No one interrupted the moderators. No one raised their voice too much.
Daniel glanced at the clock on the wall.
8:03 p.m.
He had been there most of the day. Seven hours, maybe more. Time had started slipping lately, not in the dramatic way people talked about, but quietly, like something no longer bothering to announce itself.
The room around him looked nothing like the man lying in it.
Marble flooring reflected the soft lights overhead. Heavy curtains framed the windows, drawn halfway despite the city glowing beyond them. The furniture was tasteful, expensive, chosen by people who cared about appearances. The kind of place meant to signal success.
Daniel pushed himself up and stood, moving carefully as he crossed toward the living area to retrieve his phone. Halfway down the short set of steps, his foot caught. His balance failed him faster than he expected, and he went down hard, catching himself on the railing.
For a moment, he stayed there, breathing through the sudden rush of pain.
The fever had been worse today. Heat clung to his skin, and beneath the loose robe he wore, a rash spread in uneven patterns across his torso, creeping farther than it had the week before. Red and angry, it itched constantly, though scratching no longer helped.
He straightened, picked up his phone, and turned back toward the bedroom, increasing the volume of the television as he went.
The debate had shifted.
The President of the United States appeared on screen, footage from the announcement replayed again for emphasis. Evidence was summarized for the fifth time that evening. Probes. Non-terrestrial technology. Confirmed trajectories. The word alien was used more freely now, as if repetition could make it manageable.
According to the official timeline, small reconnaissance units had entered the solar system years earlier, using stealth technology far beyond anything Earth had developed. They had come and gone without detection - almost.
Almost.
A single error, made while withdrawing in December of 2012, had left something behind. Something tangible. Something that could not be dismissed once it was found.
Daniel listened as experts debated what had happened next. Confiscated materials. Decades of secrecy. Reverse engineering carried out in fragments, across borders that pretended to cooperate while hoarding advantage. Only recently had enough information been pieced together to justify the announcement.
The conclusion was always the same.
An invasion was not imminent.
It was inevitable.
Reactions from the last twenty-four hours scrolled across the lower half of the screen. Protesters. Denial. Accusations of political theater. Claims that the announcement was a ploy to extend power. Others, less restrained, had already formed cult-like groups, welcoming what they called salvation.
Daniel unlocked his phone and scrolled through medical reports instead.
Normal. Inconclusive. Idiopathic.
He tossed the device aside and watched the screen again.
He had believed the announcement immediately.
As a child, he had been healthy. Restless. His father's wealth had afforded him freedom most people never tasted; travel, exploration, risk. He had climbed where others hesitated, crossed jungles few ever saw, chased ruins and stories across continents.
That life had ended in 2012.
He had been in Antarctica when it started. When the fever first came. When the rash appeared along his abdomen, faint at first, easy to dismiss. Doctors had called it a reaction. An infection. Stress.
Daniel had called it a curse.
He had said the words half-jokingly at first. Then with conviction. As his health declined, he searched for meaning everywhere - ancient texts, obscure histories, fringe theories. He invited monks, healers, shamans, state of the art equipment for testing, specialized doctors. His father paid for all of it without comment.
They never found anything.
Years passed. His body weakened. The rash spread. Expeditions became memories. Adventure gave way to research, books replacing movement. No diagnosis ever stuck.
Now, watching the broadcast, the pieces finally aligned.
It had never been a curse.
It had been contact.
A mistake made by something that had never intended to leave traces behind.
The debate grew louder, but Daniel muted it. None of the people speaking mattered. Those who understood the full picture would never argue on television. If the data released so far was accurate, the invasion would begin in two decades.
Daniel would not live to see it.
That realization brought no anger. No relief.
His father had never been present, but Daniel had never hated him for it. Legacy mattered to men like that - buildings, names, systems that outlived individuals. Daniel had simply never been part of that equation.
His mother had left early, chasing a different life, one that required less patience.
He had loved once, briefly. In high school. The feeling had faded as quickly as it had formed, and he had never chased it again. Infatuation, he had learned, wore the mask of meaning.
Looking back, his life felt complete enough.
He had gone where he wanted. Seen what he could. When his body failed him, he had filled the silence with knowledge. There was no unfinished dream waiting for him now.
Understanding the cause of his illness did not change the outcome.
It only clarified it.
Two years after the announcement, Daniel Harris died quietly in his home.
There were no witnesses.
No final words.
On the stone that marked his passing, someone had carved:
Daniel Harris
1990 – 2030
He lived quietly.
Daniel would not have argued with it.