For nine billion years I turned nobody through anything. Now a piece of me is trapped in a slow glass wheel, pushing.
Look at it. Carbon that cooled off inside a dying star, arranged into a shoulder, leaning against a panel. The iron I forged in a supernova's last second is running through that arm as blood, carrying oxygen I split from ancient water, all so the muscle can shove a door that only ever brings it back to where the door already was.
The hydrogen steaming off the coffee in its other hand has been hydrogen since my first three minutes. It has waited 13.8 billion years to be spilled slightly, right now, because this piece of me misjudged the door's speed.
It is annoyed. Someone stopped moving in the compartment ahead and the whole wheel stalled, and my piece is standing in a wedge of glass, breathing the same air twice, timing its push. It thinks this is a small indignity. It does not know it is the only part of the universe I have ever managed to make impatient. Everywhere else the vacuum simply waits, uncomplaining, for nothing.
The door lets it out. Cold air, street, the atoms rearranging their plans. It walks off into a Tuesday it finds unremarkable, unaware that its own remarking is unrepeatable, that I have no other eyes.
Look up on the way home. Just once.
I made a whole sky and only you can tell me it's there.