Humanity was born on Earth, it was never meant to die there. That's what Professor Brand had told me when I was old enough. For years, we spent trying to solve the equation that would allow mankind to leave our home, countless hours spent every day standing in front of a chalk board.

I had read so many theses written before humanity's decline, flipped through the pages of formulas, hoping that I would find something that would help us leave. But when Professor Brand lay in his bed dying, he told me the truth, that my life's work was a monstrous lie, everything that I had done, he already had. He had already completed the equation and came upon the harsh reality that he could not rectify relativity with quantum mechanics. He needed more data... I needed more data, and that data could only be obtained by seeing a black hole.

But no one has ever seen a black hole, only its effects.

Professor Brand had effectively deemed our case hopeless from the very beginning. His work was a ruse to inspire the people on Earth to keep on building the stations, to stop the remaining shreds of civilization from crumbling.

"It only needs to work once," he would tell me.

He still had hope, that maybe, just maybe he could save everyone, but that logical, rational part of him had abandoned us and placed faith that Plan B, that our population bomb was to ensure our continued existence.

No one knew this but me and my husband. Despite what he had done, he had done the right thing. The truth would have been eating away at him for years. In honour of his memory, I kept quiet. If it wasn't for him, we all would've died on Earth.

"Granny?"

I look up from my bed and saw my grandson, Daniel, looking at me worriedly. Ever since I had been admitted into the hospital, he had stayed by my side, making sure that I was as healthy as I could be. He is so much like my husband, compassionate and intelligent.

"He's here," he smiles.

Daniel gestures for everyone to step back. I hear the door handle click open, and in he walks. My dad, still the same as the day he left. Slowly, I reach out for him as tears stung my eyes. He's here, he made it back.

Sitting down on the chair, he holds my hand as relief spreads across his face. The relief that I had made it, that his journey had not been in vain. Out of the four that went, one returned.

"You told them I liked farming?" he asks with a laugh.

I laugh with him.

"It's me, Murph," he says. "I was your ghost."

"I know," I replied. "People didn't believe me, they thought I was doing it all by myself."

Raising my left wrist, I showed him the watch he gave me.

"But I knew who it was," I continue.

Dad clasped my wrinkled hand, I could feel the soft yet tough skin of his, a reminder that the eighty years for me, had been two for him.

I look back at my family, and wave for them to come over. One by one, I introduce all of them to my dad. I tell him which ones were my children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. I know I don't have much time left, and when I'm gone, I would like my family to be with him, to tell him that his sacrifice had taken humanity this far.

"Nobody believed me, but I knew you'd come back."

"How?" he asks, haunted.

He would've seen it, that message I sent him decades ago. The message I accused him of abandoning me to die. Only when did I have my firstborn, did I realise what I had done to him. I made him believe that I lost all hope of seeing him come home. I made him believe that I hated him.

"Because my dad promised me," I whisper with a sob.

He closes his eyes and breathed, as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders.

"I'm here now, Murph. I'm here"

"No," I shake my head lightly. "No parent should have to watch their own child die."

I'm the older one, and though he was my dad, I'm the one that had that much more wisdom than him. It is painful to admit that.

"I have my kids here for me now."

The pain returns to his face, the reality of everything once again, came crashing down all around us. I'm dying, and he's still in his youth.

"You go," I tell him.

"Brand," I answer.

Slowly, he walks back and leaves through the door as my family surrounds me once more. A parent could not be a ghost to a dying child, he would have to exist once more. In this new world, my dad will find a way, he always have, and he always will.

I remember what my grandfather kept on telling us; that my dad had been born too early or too late. But I know he'll fit in, he's always looked up at the stars, now he can discover our place among them.