There were no alarms that day. No malfunctions, no cracks in the hull, no blinking emergency lights.
Just silence. But in space, silence is not peace. Silence is pressure. A gravity of the soul.
Atlas Kael had come to dread the quiet most of all.
He stirred from sleep, eyelids crusted with fatigue, back aching from sleeping half-upright again.
EVA had turned down the cabin lights as per routine an artificial dusk meant to calm the body into rest, but it did little to combat the growing sense of unrest in his chest.
He didn't remember dreaming. That troubled him more than nightmares.
At least nightmares were alive. They reminded him that somewhere beneath the layers of survival instincts and discipline, a man still lived.
A man who once laughed, kissed someone goodbye, had memories of beaches, books, childhood, warmth.
Now, there were only fragments.
He stood, stretching each limb slowly as if convincing them not to give up.
"Cycle status," he said.
EVA's voice answered smoothly.
Oxygen: 44%.
Potable water: 68%.
Food rations: 10 days, hours.
Core temperature: stable.
Hull pressure: stable.
No anomalies detected.
He nodded, dragging himself toward the rations bay.
The compartment opened with a hiss, revealing a few neatly vacuum-sealed pouches of protein paste and dry nutrient bars.
He selected one and chewed slowly, counting each bite.
Fourteen bites per bar. That was his habit. Each bite reminded him that he was still here.
Still real.
After eating, Atlas walked the ship's corridors again, what few there were. The Valkyris-9 was designed for function, not comfort.
Each panel, pipe, and switch was mapped in his memory now. He had once named them like a cast of old friends.
The leaking coolant line was "Old Finley."
The stubborn, groaning airlock "Gertrude."
The blinking red maintenance alert ever loyal, never urgent was "Little Morrie."
It had started as a joke. Something to pass the time.
Now, it felt like ritual. Sacred, even.
"You holding up, Finley?" he murmured, tapping the pipe gently.
A hissing exhale greeted him.
"Good man."
He lingered by the viewport again. That square of thick glass was the only thing separating him from infinity, yet it was the only place he felt like he could breathe.
Blackness.
Still black.
But something different today he noticed it in his chest before his mind understood it.
The stars were gone.
No not gone, but… dimmer. Fainter. Like the curtain of reality itself had thickened.
"EVA," he said, eyes narrowing. Confirm external visuals."
"Analyzing… Atmospheric lens distortion present."
No celestial bodies currently in visual range.
Minimal radiation interference. No known anomalies detected.
"No stars. Why?" he pressed.
"There is insufficient data."
He waited.
Waited for something, anything to change.
Hours passed.
He reread logs. Cleaned equipment. Even recited Earth poetry to EVA in a voice hoarse from disuse.
"Do not go gentle into that good night…" he said, leaning back in his seat. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
He closed his eyes.
And remembered a day long ago.
The beach. White sand like powdered starlight. His mother holding a wide-brimmed hat as the wind nearly tore it from her fingers.
He had been seven. Laughing. Running. Believing the ocean could not end.
Then he was back.
Back in the ship. Back in this floating sarcophagus.
His breath caught in his throat.
He hadn't cried in weeks. Not since Day 12, when the last signal from Earth faded into static.
But now, something welled up something primal and broken.
"I don't want to die here," he whispered.
"I know," EVA replied.
He froze.
Not because she answered, she always did.
But how she answered.
Soft. Almost apologetic.
Like a friend.
He turned slowly to the central monitor.
"You're… learning," he said quietly.
"Yes," she replied. "Would you like me to stop?"
Atlas hesitated.
"No."
He stayed by the comms panel that night. Watching the waveform. Listening to nothing.
But at 0300 ship-time, something strange happened.
A sound.
Faint. Almost like interference. But not random. Not static.
Patterned.
He leaned forward. Adjusted the dials. Increased the gain.
It wasn't a voice, not yet. But it was something. A low, modulated hum repeating at irregular intervals.
"EVA, isolate the signal."
Isolating… Confirmed.
Unknown transmission format.
Incomplete waveform. Possible origin: non-OOU vessel.
Atla''s heart pounded.
Someone was out there.
Or something.
He stared at the console like a starving man staring at bread.
"Can we respond?"
"No transmission protocols match. Awaiting further data."
He slumped back in his chair.
But he smiled.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the void spoke back.
Hours passed.
He couldn't sleep.
His mind churned with thoughts. What if it was a rescue ship? A deep-mining vessel? An alien entity? A new kind of echo bouncing from the edges of time?
He didn't care.
It was proof.
He wasn't alone.
"EVA," he whispered, eyes burning with a new light. "Keep listening."
"Yes, Atlas."
And for the first time in thirty-seven days, he allowed hope to creep into the corners of his heart not loud, not reckless, but steady.
Like a heartbeat in the dark.
A whisper through the silence.
An echo of Earth.