We Were Still Here When The Signal Let Go

The screen went black between one breath and the next. No fade. No warning. Just absence where a voice had been. The room stayed bright and quiet and unforgiving.

Archivist Rowan Silas Kerr did not reach out to restart the playback. His hands rested flat on his thighs exactly where he had placed them before the message began. He kept his posture formal the way he did during official reviews even though there was no one else in the room. Outside the viewport the station rotated slowly past a field of pale debris that caught the light and scattered it like dust.

He waited for the sound that usually followed the end of a transmission. It never came.

Behind him a chair shifted. Someone had been standing longer than necessary before choosing to move.

Lena Maris Ochoa stopped a few steps away. Her hair was pulled back loosely as if she had done it without looking. She had not put on her jacket. The name she carried felt like a line in a record when it entered his mind. Complete. Careful. Distant.

That was the last packet she said.

Rowan nodded once. The motion felt heavier than expected.

The station continued its cycle. Systems hummed. Lights adjusted themselves. Somewhere a door opened and closed. None of it acknowledged what had ended.

They returned to routine because routine was familiar and did not ask questions. Rowan logged the loss into the archive with precise language that left no space for grief. Lena ran diagnostics and recalibrated sensors that no longer needed perfect accuracy. Their paths crossed in narrow corridors. They exchanged brief looks that held too much and then let go.

Hours folded into days. The debris field outside shifted slowly like something breathing in sleep. At night the station dimmed and the stars pressed closer against the glass. Rowan lay awake listening to the subtle sounds of metal settling. He counted them. It helped.

On the fourth cycle the temperature regulator faltered. Lena called him to assist. They worked side by side in the maintenance bay surrounded by the smell of heated wiring and recycled air. Rowan focused on the numbers scrolling past. Lena passed him tools before he asked. Their shoulders brushed once. The contact sent a sharp clarity through him that surprised him with its intensity.

Sorry she said automatically.

He shook his head. It is fine.

The words felt insufficient but true.

Afterward they sat on the floor with their backs against the wall drinking water that tasted faintly of minerals. Neither of them spoke for a long time. The silence was not empty. It was full of things that had no place to go.

I keep thinking I should feel something different Lena said finally.

Rowan considered this. Different from what he asked.

She looked at her hands. From the moment it stopped.

He thought of the screen going dark. Of the way the room had stayed the same. Maybe this is what it feels like when there is nothing left to change he said.

She nodded slowly.

They began sharing time deliberately after that. Meals stretched longer. Conversations wandered into memories that had no practical value. A park on Earth where Rowan used to sit and watch light move through leaves. A market near Lena childhood home where music spilled from open windows. These places existed now only in words.

The station drifted farther from its original orbit. Fuel constraints made course correction impossible. The decision had been made long ago and filed away. Observation mode engaged. Waiting resumed.

Waiting changed them. Rowan noticed the way Lena stood closer when the stars flared unexpectedly. Lena noticed how Rowan paused before speaking as if weighing the cost of each word. They learned each other without naming what was happening.

The warning came softly. A stress fracture in the outer ring. Containment would hold for a while but not indefinitely. There was one evacuation pod left functional. Its trajectory could intersect a passing relay vessel if launched at the right moment. It could carry one person.

They reviewed the projections together in the control room. The numbers were calm. The conclusion was not.

It should be you Rowan said.

Lena closed her eyes. Not because she disagreed but because agreement felt like surrender.

The final hours were quiet. Rowan walked the length of the archive one last time touching the edges of consoles he had tended for years. Lena packed a small kit without looking at what she chose. They met again by the viewport where the debris field glowed softly.

Say it she said.

He knew what she meant. He spoke her full name with care. Lena Maris Ochoa.

The name sounded like a farewell.

The pod sealed. The station released it with a gentle shudder. Rowan watched until the light of it blended into the stars. The fracture spread slowly. Systems failed one by one with polite alerts.

Later alone in the archive Rowan replayed the final message at last. It still ended too soon. He let it.

Archivist Rowan Silas Kerr rested his hands on his thighs and stayed where he was as the station drifted on. Outside the debris continued its patient orbit unaware of what it replaced.

He did not move.