There has always been much speculation among scientists and philosophers about what exactly lies at the end of the universe. These speculative debates tend to be friendly, but that’s not to say no one ever wound up engaged in fisticuffs over the question. Philosophers in particular are inclined to solve the occasional disagreement with a good, old-fashioned boxing match.
Ideas vary widely. Some suggest all of everything exists in a loop, and that, in fact, the universe never ends. Instead “the end” is nothing more than right back where you started. You live, you die, you live, you die, you do it all over again.
Some say it is twenty-six dimensions and instead of reaching the end you just sort of wind up in the next dimension over, still in the same place… but different. Like a wibbly-wobbly ball of interdimensional mush folding over on itself for all eternity.
Some say the universe is expanding so quickly that no matter how fast you travel, you will never reach the end. Others say that heaven is at end of the universe, or hell. Still others say there is nothing at all at the end of the universe. It is true emptiness. A void.
One philosopher in particular believed that the end of the universe is a nothing but a utopia of pink rabbits, frolicking in a sea of white apple blossoms under a clear blue sky.
The answer is, in fact, much simpler.
There is a bench at the end of the universe.
“Perplexed” is the word which best describes the reaction of most scientists upon learning of this discovery. Astrophysicists, engineers, mathematicians, quantum physicists, astronomers, biologists—even astrologists found themselves shocked and confused. Perhaps even a little disappointed. They weren’t quite sure what to do with the bench, or what it meant. So they did what scientists do best: they catalogued it—its shape, its size, its color, its smell.
It is a solitary bench, surrounded by mist and fog, with a lush layer of dewy, green grass beneath. The wood is worn but not rotted, with a few initials scratched into the surface (after all, what is more romantic than carving your initials into the bench at the end of the universe?). It isn't cemented to the ground or secured by wooden posts, yet it cannot be moved.
It is the Bench at the End of the Universe.
Once the bench was discovered, scientists began to hypothesize. The first question they asked was, "How is there a bench at the end of the universe?" but no matter how many photos they took, how many samples they put in test tubes, how much data they gathered or numbers they crunched—the answer always remained: “We don’t know.”
So they passed it off to the philosophers.
“Why is there a bench at the end of the universe?” the philosophers asked.
“It is a message from God communicating the importance of simplicity and keeping our minds focused on the now,” religious scholars said.
“It represents ultimate futility. The answer to every question we have about the meaning of life turns out to be a bench,” nihilists suggested.
“It means nothing,” the existentialists posited, “except that we should be finding meaning in our own lives and not worrying about what’s happening at the end of the universe.”
“Everything is meaningless and so is this bench,” declared the absurdists, “but whatever.”
When the philosophers ran out of things to say about it, they turned it over to the capitalists.
The capitalists, of course, turned it into a tourist attraction.
At first, tourists showed up in droves with cameras. They wore brightly colored visors, fanny packs, and t-shirts that read “THE BENCH.” But when they arrived at the end of the universe, they said, “Is this it?” and then left, disappointed that the only thing to see was a bench—even though they knew exactly what they were getting themselves into before they arrived.
The capitalists tried decreasing the price of entry, running online advertisements, and giving significant group discounts. They tried hosting workshops, music concerts, and lectures at the bench. They built plaques sharing historical information, biographies of the team who discovered it, and philosophical ramblings from various disciplines about the true Meaning, with a capital M, of the bench. They added music, colorful flags, and strings of shiny lights. They built a gift shop.
But the tourists could get those things anywhere. Even poets and artists who came to be inspired, left with little to show from their visit.
Soon, only a few transport buses arrived each week. They stayed for an hour and let the tourists mill about the grassy area to look at the foggy nothingness surrounding the bench. Stanchions, red velvet rope, and a large sign reading “DO NOT TOUCH,” prevented anyone from sitting on the bench or venturing too near. Visitors quickly became bored and left.
Popularity for the new tourist attraction dwindled rapidly, and eventually, the GalactiGroup Corporation decided to cancel the few remaining bus tours. They were taking a loss, and if people wanted to visit, they could find their own transportation.
As the very last bus opened its doors to welcome the very last customer for the very last time, it rattled and shook, in desperate need of maintenance GalactiGroup had opted not to provide. It carried only one passenger: a young woman wearing a loose t-shirt with her hair pulled back in a bun.
The most obvious thing about the young woman was that she was tired. Her eyes drooped and she sat numbly in the front seat, existing in that agitated state of wakefulness in which you both need to sleep and cannot sleep simultaneously. Yes, she was tired. Of everything. Every day was an endless revolving door of work and struggle, pain and longing. Her problems never went away; they just took turns harassing her.
The only good thing that had happened to her recently was that she won the Team Thank You Lottery at work. The prize: a ticket. Last month her coworker had won a ticket to attend a concert by the Weirdly Wonderful Winging Sisters, one of the most popular musical groups in the galaxy. The month before that, a different coworker won a ticket to the Galactic Milieu Fundraising Gala, where the richest, most famous, and most well-respected individuals in the galaxy gathered to support those less fortunate than they.
Of course, she had only won a ticket to the Bench, which was considered one of the least interesting tourist attractions in existence. But at least it was a change from the daily monotony. A break from rolling the rock up the hill every day, day after day, with nothing to show for it.
She boarded the transport bus. There was no bus driver to greet her, just a friendly robot that stamped her ticket and then revved up the bus engine. She was the only passenger.
She sat next to a window and stared out at the stars and the planets as the bus passed through the galaxy. She liked it when she could see a galaxy that was kind of far off—swirls of beautifully colored stars and galactic dust making unbelievably beautiful patterns in the sky.
When they arrived, the bus door squeaked as it opened.
“The bus will return in one hour,” the robot intoned, and then buzzed away to hover out of sight.
The woman surveyed the scene before her. The bench sat on a grassy knoll, surrounded by an empty, white fog. Silver stanchions with velvet red ropes created a barrier between her and the bench. A large sign read “DO NOT TOUCH.” The gift shop was closed.
She leaned forward to take a closer look at the scientific and philosophical marvel. She saw letters scratched into the wood—“J&A” and “S&J” and “G&M.” Someone had carved a heart around “G&M,” and another person had gouged out the shape of a star in one corner.
Right in the middle, almost invisible beneath all the letters lovers left in the wood, were three other letters: S, I, and T.
SIT.
Now, the woman knew sitting was against the rules. In fact, in addition to the sign which read “DO NOT TOUCH,” there were several other signs indicating that there was to be no touching, no sitting, and no flash photography, and those who broke the rules did so upon penalty of fine and imprisonment. But it looked to her like the bench itself was suggesting she sit down. Sure, perhaps those were more initials of the ancients who had created this place—S. I. T. could stand for Stanley Isaac Tomlinson or Stacey Isabelle Thomas.
But “sit,” seemed like a logical thing to do to a bench.
And the truth was, she was tired. Tired to the very core of her bones. A sort of mid-life weariness, built up over years of sleepless nights, long days, and an ever-growing pile of burdens and responsibilities. She glanced around—there were no guards, scientists, or philosophers. Even the bus had gone.
She was alone.
She ducked under the red velvet rope. And she sat on the bench.
It sounds like a simple enough thing to do—to sit—but believe it or not, no one had ever actually sat on the bench. The anthropologists had declared it a wonder of sentient engineering that should never be disturbed, the scientists had insisted that the bench remain clean of all outside bacteria and influences, and even the parents and teachers and middle managers had said, “Well, if the professionals say don’t sit, then don’t sit!” Everyone, for the first time in human history, had followed the rules.
Perhaps the rules were wrong, she thought.
For as she stared into the emptiness before her, the white fog began to dissipate, revealing all of time on a great multi-dimensional stage. It was a spider web stretching in every direction, filled with flowers and fireworks, brainstems and bacteria, and the swirling lives of people she had never known.
All of time, all of history, all of life spread out before her; people with their individual lives and individual struggles, a simultaneous feeling of emptiness and fullness.
Exhausted, yet alive.
Somehow mortal and immortal at the same time.
The Bench at the End of the Universe.
It wasn’t just a bench, or a tourist attraction, or a philosophical puzzle, or a math problem to solve.
It was a view.
