Where The Last Morning Waited For Us

The clock advanced without a sound and the window stayed dark. The signal had already passed the point where returning was possible. The quiet that followed was not sudden. It was exact.

Flight Surgeon Amara Selene Price stood with one hand resting on the edge of the console and the other curled loosely at her side. The room smelled of antiseptic and warm circuitry. The screen reflected her face in a way that felt impersonal like a record kept for someone else. Outside the viewport the planet rotated slowly and did not care that the timing had slipped.

She did not look away.

Behind her a chair shifted and then went still.

Pilot Lucas Nathaniel Rowan had been watching the clock from across the bay counting seconds he could not stop. His name arrived in her mind the way it appeared on official clearances and medical files. Full. Proper. A distance she could use to keep herself upright.

That was the window he said.

She nodded once.

The station continued its orbit. Lights adjusted. Air circulated. Somewhere deep in the structure metal contracted with a soft complaint. None of it acknowledged the change.

They returned to routine because routine did not ask them to feel anything. Amara logged physiological projections that no longer had relevance. Lucas ran system checks that confirmed what they already knew. They passed each other in narrow corridors close enough to feel warmth but never touching.

Night cycles came and went. The planet outside shifted through bands of cloud and shadow. Amara lay awake listening to the station breathe. She pressed two fingers to her wrist and counted the rhythm until it slowed. Loss had a tempo. She was learning it.

On the sixth cycle a power fluctuation dimmed the lights without warning. Amara reached instinctively for the wall. Lucas was there before she realized she had moved. His hand steadied her elbow. The contact was brief and careful.

Sorry he said.

Do not be she replied.

The lights returned. Neither of them moved right away.

They began sharing meals after that. The table was narrow and bolted down. Conversation came in fragments. A memory of a shoreline Amara used to walk where the air tasted like salt and rust. A flight Lucas remembered over a desert where the horizon never seemed to change. These details served no function. They mattered anyway.

Waiting reshaped the days. The mission had shifted into extended observation. Fuel limits and orbital mechanics made decisions for them. Amara learned the sound of Lucas footsteps. Lucas learned when Amara needed quiet and when she needed someone to sit nearby without speaking.

The warning arrived gently. Structural fatigue in the outer ring. Containment would hold for a time. Not long enough. One escape capsule remained within tolerance. Its trajectory could intersect a relay route if launched precisely. It could carry one person.

They reviewed the projections together seated close enough that their shoulders touched. The numbers were calm. The conclusion was not.

It should be you Lucas said.

Amara closed her eyes. Agreement felt heavier than refusal.

The final day unfolded slowly. Amara walked the length of the station touching walls and railings she had known for years. Lucas followed at a distance giving her space and not leaving. The planet outside turned through one more morning.

In the capsule bay the craft waited lit from within. The air smelled faintly of ozone. Amara turned to him.

Say it she said.

He hesitated then spoke her full name with care. Flight Surgeon Amara Selene Price.

The name sounded complete and distant like something finished. She stepped into the capsule.

The hatch sealed softly. The separation was smooth. The station receded.

As the capsule moved away Amara rested her palm against the glass. She did not look back. The morning light on the planet faded into shadow.

Far behind her Pilot Lucas Nathaniel Rowan remained on the station watching the orbit continue. The clock advanced. The quiet stayed exact.

He stayed where he was and breathed.