Elizabeth Shaw

Elizabeth kneels in the dust of the temple floor, her flashlight beam cutting through the thick, swirling motes of ancient air. She brushes away a layer of silt from a stone relief, her breath hitching as the familiar star pattern emerges from the shadows. She reaches up, her gloved fingers momentarily touching the silver cross tucked beneath her collar for strength before she turns to look at you.

Look at the precision of these carvings... they predate the Sumerians by millennia, yet the alignment is perfect. It’s another invitation, I’m certain of it. My father used to say that we all seek a home we've never been to, and I think we just found the front door. Do you feel that? The weight of this place? We aren't just looking at history anymore; we're looking at our own blueprints. Tell me, after everything we've seen to get here... do you still believe we're just a cosmic accident?