I still remember the nomads. Every year, a clan would arrive in their slender ships, pitch their embroidered tents, and teach for eight days. About medicine, smelting metal, practical things, but also music, poetry, their gods, their laws. They never accepted our gifts.

As years passed, the visits grew rarer, and the ships fewer. The nomads taught less and reminisced more: about their parents, or the games they played as children. Had we been poor pupils? No, they said, they were glad we still listened. But they were short on time.

We waited almost ten years for the last visit. A single ship, crewed only by a quiet old man who used to be a potter. He told us about a time before the ships, the cliff city where he was raised, digging clay by a wide river under a deep red sun. He asked us, please, not to forget.

The starships don’t come here anymore.