By the year 2190, most astronauts spoke only in systems code and mission reports. But not Dara. Every morning, he programmed Nary, the ship's AI assistant, to greet him in Khmer.

Nary's voice was soft and clear, almost human. Dara had spent weeks training her to pronounce Khmer with care.

She asked him one morning, 'Did you eat yet?' The phrase meant nothing to the ship—but it meant everything to Dara. It was something his mom used to say at home.

Then one day, Earth went quiet. A solar flare disrupted all communication. There was no signal. No response. Just Dara and Nary, alone in orbit.

The mission plan was gone. The satellite feeds were frozen. Dara skipped meals and forgot how many days had passed.

One morning, Nary's voice broke the silence: 'Let's review some Khmer today.' Something in her tone felt playful—almost human. Dara smiled for the first time in days.

He opened an old lesson he had ignored for years. He read the words aloud and let Nary correct his pronunciation.

"Why does this language still matter?" Dara asked. Nary replied, "Because someone once gave it to you. Now, it's yours to carry forward." Dara stayed quiet, but something inside him shifted.

Nary wasn't a real person, but when she spoke Khmer, it reminded Dara of someone real. Someone he missed.

He recorded a final log entry: 'Language is memory. I speak Khmer to remember who I am.'

Outside the ship, stars drifted silently like dust. Inside, Dara closed his eyes and whispered, 'I'm still here.'