That last line was a joke. Since when has Biologist made anything less confusing?

“Those lines on the paper are her soul’s last will and testament.”

That’s what she told them. Apparently, most last wills are made from words, or at least sigils. And even then, they only manifest physically when in the presence of magic—never on their own. They usually give commands, or at least make requests of loved ones. They want them to carry on the change they were never able to make by themselves.

“Overthrow the empire, as I have failed to do.”

“Never, ever attempt to climb K2.”

“Please take care of my son.”

Those kinds of things are typical. Mine, not so much. But I know what it was.

Ever since I was little, I liked electronics. There’s just something so deep about it. It’s like we’re gods, forming bodies out of rock and dust to make them think for us. A small eidolon set forth to do our bidding on an entirely different virtual plane. Something that significant, and you could just get one at Radio Shack.

Computer programming is alright, but my interest really lies in the hardware, the fundamentals. I remember learning how an ALU worked, the mathematical center of any computer-like device. It’s not necessarily simple, but with some effort it’s understandable. The first person to work it out and actually see one work must have been a genius. They really birthed a whole new dimension to the world. (Though, I’m sure it was more than just one person.)

I want to invent something like that, too. A new dimension—a new way of doing things. A new way of thinking. A new place for intelligence to be born. And really, I feel like it’s impossible, but I’m still chasing it. It’s impossible not to, it’s written deep in my bones. I think about it when I’m trying to fall asleep. I think about it when I watch TV. I think about it in the bath. It never leaves me. That dream will always be in front of me, even if I don’t really even know what it is. I’ve gotten glimpses, though.

During intense sessions of planning and hastily prototyping various electrical knick-knacks, I’ll catch a tiny spark of the flame I’m trying to create. Just a hint—just enough to remind me that I have a chance. But just as soon as they appear, they vanish. Somehow. I logic it away, or find a fatal flaw in the concept I was hypothesizing. But, even then, it energizes me like nothing else. Is it really the invention itself that I’m chasing, or is it just the euphoria of seeing it through?

Even though I never figured out what I was searching for, some part of me knew what it was, deep down. A part of my subconscious that was trying desperately to be pulled out. A bit of gold buried under tons of pyrite. It was blurry like a half-forgotten dream, but somewhere, all of it was present. It is within me. Fate is sealed. There is something I must create, and it will be created.

If, and only if, I was meant to be. If I was an intended creation, I would be able to see it through. It might have taken until I was seventy, but it would happen. Just like you. Maybe you’ll be the inventor of flying cars, you’ll develop the world’s best VR game, or even just make a very nice pattern of curtains. You’ll do something. I am unable. No matter how hard I work, or how much I bleed for my dream, it can never come to fruition.

But then I died, and all that logic went out the window. My body, in its last, writhing throws of existence, formed the very thing it could never create. This ball of paper was the schematic for the invention I could never create.

And then I got to read it.