"Why does the sky remain silent?" exclaimed a man standing in the center of a stage in a darkened amphitheater.
"Why has no signal ever been detected?" he continued, addressing the students seated in the assembly.
"Why have we never encountered extraterrestrials, despite estimates suggesting there are hundreds of billions of planets orbiting stars other than our own? Tens of millions of these worlds could potentially harbor life, and nearly 100,000 civilizations could theoretically exist at this very moment—just within our own galaxy."
With those simple words, he had already captured the curiosity of several students in attendance.
"Today, we will explore two of the greatest enigmas of the universe: the Fermi Paradox and the Great Filter theory. Buckle up, because this journey into the unknown may radically change the way you perceive our place in the cosmos."
The voice of this middle-aged man with brown hair resonated throughout the room. He had the full attention of the assembly.
"To explain this mystery, we often turn to the Fermi Paradox and its many hypotheses attempting to justify this great silence. Some theories suggest that the emergence of life is, for various reasons, extremely rare. In that case, advanced extraterrestrial civilizations simply do not exist, and we are either completely alone or among the very few in our galaxy. Essentially, we miscalculated their numbers. Others propose the hypothesis of a super-predator civilization."
"I won't dwell on that theory today, as I plan to dedicate an entire lecture to it—it is just as unsettling as the one we will be delving into today, which, in my opinion, is one of the most frightening explanations for the Fermi Paradox."
"Let's begin with the Fermi Paradox. In 1950, the renowned Italian physicist Enrico Fermi posed a simple question over lunch: 'But where is everybody?' This question, dear students, may seem trivial, but it is profoundly significant. With billions of stars in our galaxy, many of them surrounded by planets, the probability of extraterrestrial life seems high. So why this deafening silence? Why is there no trace of advanced civilizations? This silence lies at the very heart of the Fermi Paradox."
"Now, let's turn our attention to an intriguing and somewhat unsettling theory: the Great Filter. Imagine an evolutionary path littered with obstacles, with critical stages—each potentially fatal for a civilization. The Great Filter represents one or more of these stages, so difficult to surpass that few, if any, civilizations manage to progress beyond them."
"The big question about the Great Filter is whether it lies behind us or ahead of us. If it is behind us, then perhaps the emergence of life, or its evolution into intelligent beings, is extraordinarily rare in the universe. In that case, we would be among the very few, or even the only ones in our galaxy, to have passed these filters. That would make us unique—but in a solitary and somewhat melancholic way."
"If, on the other hand, the Great Filter is ahead of us, it means that something prevents civilizations from reaching an advanced stage without perishing. This possibility is unsettling. It suggests that, despite all our progress, an insurmountable challenge awaits us. This could be self-destruction through nuclear war, climate change, a catastrophic pandemic, or even a danger we have yet to conceive."
"So, dear students, what thoughts do these ideas inspire in you about our future, our responsibility, and our relentless quest to understand our place in the universe?"
At these words, there was only silence in response. The students were as astonished as they were intrigued by the theories presented by the man.
Noting the impact of his words on his audience, the middle-aged man allowed a slight smile to cross his lips. He glanced at his watch, and seeing that it was nearly time for him to leave, he began gathering his things.
"Very well, I will upload today's lecture materials to the intranet. Don't forget to prepare for your exams in a month. Class is over—I wish you all a good day," he said as the students gradually exited the room.
The professor, however, was in no hurry to return home. There was no one waiting for him.
Calm and composed by nature, he always took his time, even for the most mundane of actions.
After packing his belongings, he left the amphitheater. Just as he was about to close the door behind him, he heard the sound of heels clicking against the floor, approaching him.
"Mr. Davis! A moment, please," called out the person heading toward him.
"Good afternoon to you as well, Ms. Roberson. What can I do for you today?" he replied politely.
The woman calling him was Lucy Roberson, one of his colleagues. She taught the same subject as he did, but at a lower level.
She was a beautiful woman, about 1.70 meters tall, with blonde hair cascading to her shoulders, graceful blue eyes, and a curvy figure that would make any man turn his head. She wore a classic office outfit: a white blouse that accentuated her ample chest and a tight black skirt that reached just above her knees, highlighting her wide hips.
"Mr. Davis, I'm really sorry, but could you cover for me at the 6 PM conference? I have an emergency and won't be able to make it," she asked, her face genuinely apologetic—almost on the verge of tears.
Unfortunately for Lucy, Aaron Davis cared about nothing. Not her beauty, not her popularity, not her favors, not even his job.
There were very few things that captured Aaron's interest in this world.
First, he loved reading. No matter the book, he enjoyed reading more than anything.
Second, he loved science. Understanding how the universe worked had fascinated him since childhood.
And finally, he loved observing people and understanding their thought processes.
And at that moment, despite his impassive face, he was enjoying this conversation—though probably for very different reasons than most people would.
He observed Lucy, and while anyone else might have seen anxiety or sadness on her face, all he saw was boredom and a look that said, "Come on, hurry up and accept already—I have better things to do."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Roberson, but I have a meeting with the head of the space observation center in an hour," he responded while glancing at his watch, as if verifying how much time he had left.
He looked up and saw the astonishment on her face. She seemed genuinely shocked that someone had refused her. The disappointment was evident.
But he didn't give her time to respond before adding, "However, if it's really that urgent, I heard Mr. Todd is free this afternoon. I'm sure he'd be happy to help you. Anyway, have a good day."
And with that, he left without another word.
One more thing about him—he was a very good liar. Not because he enjoyed lying, but because he had a natural talent for it.
It was likely due to his unusual upbringing.
He had grown up in a family of four: his father, his mother, and a younger sister, just one year his junior.
His father and mother had never loved each other, which in itself wouldn't have been an issue. After all, arranged marriages weren't necessarily bad if both parties got what they wanted out of the arrangement.
But things became problematic when his father, 30 years older than his mother, began to fear abandonment and dying alone.
In a misguided attempt to keep his family close, his father became suffocating—monitoring every aspect of their lives, asking too many questions, and ultimately installing security cameras throughout the house.
The only way to gain even a semblance of freedom in that kind of environment was to learn how to lie and remain calm in every situation.
His father eventually passed away after his mother, unable to bear it any longer, filed for divorce.
By then, Aaron was old enough to take care of himself. His sister had left with their mother, who later remarried and had two more children.
All of this to say—Aaron's life hadn't been easy, but it certainly could have been worse. At least he knew that, in their own way, his parents had loved him.
Aaron Davis left the university, leaving behind the bustling student halls and the echoing chatter of the campus. The middle-aged man with slightly disheveled brown hair walked with a steady pace, his mind oscillating between the lectures he had to give the next day and the books he planned to read that evening. As always, his expression remained unreadable, a mask of indifference that he had perfected over the years.
The city was bathed in the dim glow of the setting sun when Aaron arrived at his apartment, located on the third floor of an old yet well-maintained building. As he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of books and ink filled his senses. A small, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his usually impassive face. This was his sanctuary, a place untouched by the chaos of the outside world. Shelves packed with books lined the walls, and various carefully arranged objects added to the orderly aesthetic.
The evening settled in, and Aaron took his usual seat by the window, turning on the television for background noise before immersing himself in his reading. As the pages turned, revealing both imaginary worlds and concrete knowledge, his mind drifted, absorbing every word like a sponge. To him, each sentence was a star in the vast celestial map of knowledge.
The news played in the background, as it did every night. The anchor's voice remained monotonous, announcing event after event, most of which were forgettable—until one particular report caught his attention.
"… Mysterious disappearances have been reported this Friday evening. At least fifteen people have gone missing this week under unexplained circumstances…"
Aaron's gaze lifted momentarily from his book. The news rarely held any significance for him. Having grown up in the digital age, he had become desensitized to the world's tragedies. Wars, natural disasters, crimes—these were constants, background noise to the human condition. Over time, he had abandoned the naive notion of a fair and just world, the kind that children dream about before reality shatters their illusions.
And yet, something about these disappearances piqued his curiosity. It was an instinct, a tug at the back of his mind. But after a few seconds of contemplation, he dismissed the thought and returned to his book. The world outside was filled with problems, and he had learned to separate his life from them. His apartment was his haven, a place where the burdens of reality were meant to be left at the door.
Meanwhile, Lucy Roberson, his colleague who had sought his help earlier, was likely scrambling to prepare for her conference. Life went on, with its false emergencies and daily struggles. Aaron, however, remained in his solitude, detached from the concerns of those around him.
As he continued reading, a small part of his mind remained tuned to the news, processing it passively. Despite his usual indifference to the suffering of others, the recent disappearances had managed to plant a seed of intrigue within him. Being a scientist, he had always been drawn to solving mysteries, and this one seemed particularly strange.
Even so, he refused to let it disrupt his evening. He had long accepted that the world was cruel and filled with injustices beyond his control. There was no point in dwelling on it.
Eventually, he set his book down and approached the window. The city was now fully enveloped in the night, with artificial lights twinkling like stars, contrasting against the darkness. He took a moment to observe the distant glow of life beyond his own walls, watching the silhouettes of people moving through the streets.
Then, with the same discipline that defined his every action, he turned off the television, switched off the lights, and headed to bed. Tomorrow would be another day, with its own challenges and discoveries. For now, all he needed was rest.