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If you find this letter, you don't need to pass it on to anyone.
I don't have any family left to mourn me. My friends have either fled or fallen. Even the people I used to pass in the street or see at the market are gone.
Soon, I'll be gone too. But if you find this letter, remember us. Remember me.
This was a pleasant enough world once. It didn't have the skyscrapers of Alpha Centauri or the ancient architecture of Bajor, but the fields were green and the forests were vast and beautiful. And we lived here, far away from the greater concerns of empires and armies. We were born, we raised families, we grew old, and we died, all content in the knowledge that the wars that raged among the stars could never touch us.
Our great-great-great grandmothers and fathers came here from Earth, from Alpha Centauri and from Nova Terra. They came from Vulcan and Betazed and even Bajor. They came here to build something with their own hands, to till the soil and harvest crops and grind grain into flour. We baked bread instead of replicating it, and walked the roads instead of transporting our atoms through space.
We were happy. That was enough.
We watched the war on our newsnets. Images of Iconians, beautiful and terrible, destroying with a gesture. Gateways opening in the midst of cities. Destruction and loss. We mourned the dead and wept for the lost worlds. We even opened our homes and took in refugees from colonies that fell to the Herald advance.
Perhaps that was our undoing. Perhaps that's why the Heralds came here too.
We'll never know. And really, what does it matter? They're here. They burn our homes. Destroy our crops. And every day, more and more people just … disappear.
We've surrendered. They do not care. We've begged for mercy. They give none. We've called for help … but when that help comes, it will be too late.
If you find this letter, remember us. Look across the blasted dust of our home and know that once, we were here.
And we were happy.