The sky was cerulean blue and streaked by ice crystals high upon it. Underneath this canopy was an island, alone in a dark and calm sea, the moon having left a century ago, excavated and rebuilt, and leaving the ocean without its tides and the life they brought. But the sea was already long dead, carbonated. The island rested, an oasis in the deadness, but even it's life had mostly left or died. Bacteria and lichens remained, adhered to the rocks, and the stone ruins.
At the center of the island was a temple, its columns long fallen down and decayed, though the plaza they encased remained relatively intact and solid.
In the middle of the plaza stood an individual in a pressurized suit that gleamed silver in the sunlight and with red stripes, slowly drowning of hypoxia; he took the form of a man, his distant ancestors. He was an archeologist.
He raised his hand to his neck, the urge to breathe was undeniable. He loosened the closure, the seal broke and air rushed in. He twisted the helmet, raised it from his head, then threw it to the ground. His face was placid and unmoved. His eyes burned in the light but he did not shade them. His transparent skin belied the blood vessels and wires it bound and contained. Light pulsed through him. He sucked in weakly, then fell to his knees.
He pulled off his gloves, wet. His hands were weeping a humor unknown to the ancients. It dripped to the plaza tiles, thick like honey, resting in dusty droplets. He dropped his hands to the ground, smearing them across the tiles. Color burst through, which hadn't been seen in thousands of years.
He fell forward slowly, catching himself, then his arms gave way, and he slid down, his face meeting the wet tiles. He wept as he died.