The Quiet Hour Before The Sky Forgot Us

The door closed between us with a sound like a held breath and her hand fell away from mine while the corridor lights dimmed as if they already knew we would never stand together there again.

The observation ring was cold and smelled of recycled air and faint metal. Beyond the glass the planet turned slowly with a patience that felt unkind. My fingers remained curved in the shape of her palm long after she stepped back. She did not look at me when the lock sealed. She looked at the floor as if memorizing it. I said her name softly and the sound reached the glass and stopped.

Around us technicians moved with careful speed. No one interrupted a farewell they pretended not to see. The lights brightened again and the moment ended without permission. I stood there until the reflection in the glass was only myself.

When I returned to my quarters the ceiling panel flickered in a tired rhythm. The station night cycle had begun. I lay on the narrow bed and listened to the hum of distant engines. The hum matched the pulse in my throat. Every breath felt borrowed.

Outside the ring the stars were sharp and numerous. Inside me something had already gone quiet.

I had met Mara in a place where sound was not allowed to linger. The deep archive floated beneath the station like a thought kept too long. We wore soft boots and spoke in low tones. The air was warmer there and smelled faintly of old polymers and dust. Light filtered down in thin bands that made the room feel underwater.

She was bent over a console tracing lines of data with a gloved finger. Her hair had come loose and brushed her cheek. I watched without meaning to. She did not turn when she spoke.

You are not supposed to stand that close she said.

I took a step back and felt foolish. I apologized. She glanced at me then with eyes that missed nothing and smiled as if the rule had been invented for a reason she did not quite believe in.

She taught me how to listen to stored memories without losing my own edges. I taught her how to slow down when the work pulled too hard. We shared hours that felt suspended. Sometimes the lights above us dimmed without warning and we would pause together and wait for them to return. The pause became a habit.

Do you ever wish you could stay inside one moment she asked once.

I did not answer. I had already begun doing exactly that.

The assignment arrived wrapped in neutral language. Temporal recovery beyond safe margin. Probability of return acceptable. Personal cost not listed. We read it in silence. The room felt suddenly larger. The light seemed too bright.

It will change you she said.

I know I replied.

You will not age the way I do.

I knew that too. The words stayed between us like a physical thing.

We did not argue. We never did. We walked the long curve of the ring that night. The station rotated and the stars moved slowly. She told me stories about her childhood on a wet world where rain fell warm and constant. I told her about a place I barely remembered. We avoided the future with care.

On the day before departure we sat in the maintenance bay where the floor was scratched from years of work. The smell of oil and ozone mixed in the air. She rested her head against my shoulder. I felt the weight of it and the trust. My hands stayed at my sides. Restraint felt safer than hope.

Say something she said quietly.

I wanted to say everything. I said nothing that mattered.

The door closed. The light dimmed. Time bent.

The mission stretched into a private eternity. I moved through eras like rooms in a long hallway. I learned the sound of silence in different centuries. My body remained almost the same while the universe aged around me. Sometimes I dreamed of the archive and the way the light fell across Mara hands as she worked. I woke with my heart racing and nowhere to put it.

When I returned the station had changed its markings. New names. New faces. The observation ring smelled the same. I stood where we had stood and pressed my palm to the glass. The planet below had a different weather pattern. The stars did not care.

In the archive I asked for her. The attendant paused before answering. That pause told me everything.

She transferred years ago he said.

Where I asked.

He gave me a location on a remote research platform near a red star. The message was old. I carried it with me like a fragile object.

The journey there was quiet. The platform was small and worn. The corridors smelled of heat and dust. I found her in a lab filled with plants grown under artificial light. The leaves were broad and green. The air was warm and alive.

She turned when she heard me. Her face held time openly. Lines at her eyes. Silver in her hair. She looked at me for a long moment without speaking.

You came she said finally.

I nodded. Words still felt dangerous.

We sat among the plants. Light filtered through leaves and painted patterns on the floor. She told me about the years she waited. The projects she started and finished. The nights she listened for ships that did not come. I listened without interrupting. Every sentence carried weight.

I recorded everything she said she admitted. Not for the archive. For myself. I needed to remember you changing.

I told her about the drift. The way time folded. The loneliness that felt endless. Our hands found each other between sentences. The warmth surprised us both.

You will leave again she said.

Yes I answered.

She closed her eyes and breathed. When she opened them there was something like peace.

Then stay this time she said. Not forever. Just long enough.

We walked outside to the edge of the platform. The red star cast a soft glow. Our shadows stretched long and thin. I held her hand as if it were something rare. The air moved gently. For the first time I did not count the cost.

The light shifted. The moment held. The sky remembered us.