The Night the Horizon Closed Its Hand

The alarm did not sound when the viewport dimmed. It happened quietly as if the station had decided not to draw attention to the loss. The horizon folded inward and vanished and the stars rearranged themselves without apology. She stood there with her palm still lifted from the glass and understood that what she had been waiting for would not arrive.

She logged the anomaly because logging made the body behave. Rhea Solenne Markov entered the coordinates and the time with exact pressure. The vanished probe was listed under long duration contact as Adrian Luca Weiss. The full names felt like walls. The observation deck smelled faintly of warmed polymer and dust carried up from the lower levels. Somewhere a relay clicked and settled.

Rhea had been assigned to horizon study because she trusted boundaries. She measured where light bent and where it broke. She liked edges that stayed put. The deck wrapped around the station in a slow curve and taught her how to stand without leaning. Each cycle the light traced the same path across the floor and left it again.

Adrian arrived on a transfer shuttle during a maintenance lull when the station dimmed itself and waited. Adrian Luca Weiss stepped into the deck with a case held close and introduced himself to the space before turning to her. He said he had been sent to monitor the probe response. He said the board wanted reassurance. Rhea pointed to the console and did not offer any.

They worked in quiet proximity. Adrian tuned receivers. Rhea tracked the horizon line as it shimmered and held. The probe signal arrived late and thin like breath after running. It carried a pressure behind the eyes and a faint warmth in the hands. Rhea recorded the numbers and ignored the sensation.

The science was careful and spare. A probe skimmed a boundary where space curved back on itself. Messages crossed and returned altered. Sometimes they returned closer than expected. Sometimes they did not return at all. The recurring motif announced itself as light. When the probe responded the deck brightened almost imperceptibly. When it fell silent the room cooled and dimmed.

Meals were taken standing. The food tasted of salt and iron. Adrian talked about a city where fog erased buildings until you were close enough to touch them. Rhea talked about the first time she realized horizons moved with you. Their names loosened. They spoke less formally. When the light brightened they shared a look and said nothing.

The probe began to respond with specificity. It mirrored timing. It anticipated questions. Once it echoed a phrase Rhea had not spoken aloud. She felt the opening wound from the darkened viewport pulse again. Adrian watched her carefully and did not ask.

The board sent notices with clean language. The boundary was unstable. The probe would be lost. Adrian folded the notice and placed it on the console. Rhea stared at the horizon and felt it tighten.

On the final cycle the probe answered clearly and then not at all. The light flared and fell. The deck dimmed. Rhea reached for the glass and felt only cold. Adrian stood very still beside her. They did not touch. The silence had weight.

They argued later in the quiet of the deck. Adrian said the boundary was not a choice. Rhea said neither was waiting. The light traced its path and left.

The shutdown came without ceremony. Rhea logged the closure and used full names again because distance returned all at once. Adrian Luca Weiss signed the final confirmation and did not look up.

He left on the next shuttle. The deck felt larger after. Rhea returned to the viewport at the same hour each cycle and waited for the horizon to loosen its grip. Rhea Solenne Markov pressed her palm to the glass where the light had once lingered and listened for the night to open again. It did not.