The wood is weather-worn, rough edges smoothed by untold hundreds of years spent floating through space, but still a few symbols remain, meticulously carved into the surface. It’s a few words, I think, and the wood was part of a prow—the only remaining bit of a long-lost shipwreck.
But I can’t quite make out what it says. I recognize a few symbols, one for action and one I associate with movement, and the grouping of glyphs that represents “Me.” I’m going to have to make some guesses though. Looking over my options, I cobble together a brief sentence.
“Follow me if you can? That’ll have to do for now.” I slip the wooden fragment into my pack. Luckily we can trace the origin, an unmarked moon that will hopefully be full of more artifacts with more symbols to translate. It better, because these feeble guesses at meaning are the only clues we have to stave off the end of the universe.