The arrival at Proxima Centauri was not a triumph; it was a bureaucratic nightmare.

Arthur, a mid-level administrator in the Department of Planetary Logistics, sat in a floating office that smelled of synthetic lemon and stale coffee. He was reviewing the "Arrival Manifest" when a priority signal flickered on his screen. It was a transmission from the original solar system.

The message was a simple, cheerful video from the Solar Recovery Agency.

"Greetings, Wanderers!" the spokesperson beamed, standing in front of a lush, green forest under a bright, yellow sun. "We have some wonderful news! It turns out the 'Helium Flash' was actually a temporary atmospheric anomaly caused by a cluster of interstellar dust. It looked like a disaster on the sensors, but it resolved itself within about eighty years. The sun is perfectly fine. In fact, it's never been healthier!"

Arthur stared at the screen. The spokesperson continued, "We've missed you! The Earth's original orbit is completely clear, and we've spent the last two thousand years turning the solar system into a galactic resort. We'd love to have you back! Just follow the return coordinates attached to this message."

Arthur looked out his window at the grey, sterile landscape of Proxima Centauri. He looked at the "Planetary Engines," those gargantuan machines that had defined human existence for a hundred generations. He thought about the billions of people who had lived and died in the dark, the cultures that had been erased, the families that had been torn apart—all for a mistake.

The "Great Migration" was the most expensive and traumatic error in human history.

"Sir?" his assistant asked. "Should I notify the High Council?"

"In a minute," Arthur replied.

He opened the "Return Logistics" file and began to calculate the cost. To move the planet back would require another two thousand years of travel, another hundred generations of underground living, and a budget that would bankrupt the remaining resources of the species.

He looked at the video again. The spokesperson was now showing off a luxury cruise ship that could take guests to the rings of Saturn in a weekend.

Arthur slowly reached for the "Delete" key.

"No," he whispered. "We're staying here."

He didn't want to go back to a paradise built on the ignorance of their struggle. He preferred the cold, honest void of Proxima Centauri to a home that had forgotten them.

He sent a brief reply to the Solar Recovery Agency: "We've decided to explore the local area. Please stop calling."

*** **Tensor Encoding**: - **MDTEM**: V=0.5, I=0.4, C=0.5, S=0.7, R=0.6 | TI=31.2 (T4 遗憾级) - **Tensor**: M2=6.0, M3=10.0, M1=5.0; N1=0.6, N2=0.4; K1=0.6, K2=0.4 - **Dynamics**: θ=33.7°, E_total=14.8 - **OTMES_v2**: [L-T4-S3-N1-K1]-X44-S2-R6