No one knows the original title of this work with certainty. Neither the composer's name nor the planet where it was first performed has survived. Later archivists named it Song of the Year When the Light Diminished, after its opening line. It is said to have been an opera in seven acts, but only Act I and the final chorus survive. One peculiar instruction recurs throughout the score. “Dim the stage lighting slightly with each verse. Slowly enough that the audience will not notice.” It remains unknown whether this was a musical direction or a requirement of the theater energy allocation system in effect at the time.
Act I — Night Came Before Night
That year, night came before night.
The harbor sun rose at its appointed hour, the streetlights never once went out, and children, in the same classrooms as yesterday, learned the names of stars farther away than yesterday.
Therefore, nothing had happened, the city announced every morning.
The light had not disappeared. The light was somewhere in the universe. It simply had not reached us.
Mother had three homes. One was on the star where she was born, one on the star where she worked, and one on the star where she would someday grow old. Every week, she checked the temperature of all three, heated the air in empty rooms, and kept a wormhole entrance open for guests who would never come.
We called it abundance.
Father had four bodies. One met his family, one attended meetings, one slept on the other side of the galaxy, and the last breathed in a clean room in case the other three broke down.
We called it safety.
The child looked out the window and asked.
“Why have the stars grown smaller?”
Mother answered that the stars had not grown smaller, but that the child's eyes had grown. Father answered that the observation equipment had improved and unnecessary light had been removed. The city answered that questions about the size of stars fell under the jurisdiction of the Astronomical Administration.
The child believed all three answers. For all three answers had come from love.
That year, night came before night. No one had stolen the sun, no one had broken a lamp, and the sums on every meter were correct.
We drew in our notebooks a warehouse not yet built. Dawns not yet born accumulated inside it like black seeds.
We could not see those seeds. We spent the interest on them first.
Final Chorus — In a Theater Without an Audience
Do not forgive us. We will not say that we did not know.
We knew enough to know, but not enough to stop.
We had no enemy. Therefore, we continued.
We had no king. Therefore, no one could revoke the order.
We had enough time. Therefore, there was no need to act today.
There was always another star. Until we reached the last.
Light did not travel backward through time. Time folded before the light.
Someday, on the other side of the fold, someone may gather our fire. He will not hate us. He will try to love longer than we did.
Do not forgive us. Do not forgive him either. For even where forgiveness ends, causes do not end.
Now darkness shall come. Slowly enough that no one will notice. Until the last face can no longer be seen. As though there had never been a last face.
At its premiere, the opera was criticized for being excessively pessimistic. The Energy Management Authority did not prohibit the performance. Instead, it reduced the electricity allocated to the theater by 11 percent. The work continued to be performed for another twelve hundred years. Whenever the final chorus began, audiences switched on their portable lights, illuminating the auditorium like a constellation. The act was understood as resistance, later became a tradition, and eventually consumed more energy than the performance itself required. At the final performance, there were neither spectators nor performers. The automated theater opened its doors at the appointed time and played the overture to empty seats. Halfway through Act I, its allocated power was cut off. The last sound heard in the surviving recording is the child's question. “Why have the stars grown smaller?” The answer disappeared before it could begin.