The station had been silent for eleven years. Ikaris walked its corridors like a ghost returning to a house that no longer remembered his name. Dust motes hung suspended in recycled air, unmoved. Somewhere, a pump clicked on, then off — the building forgetting it had once been alive. He pressed his palm to the observation deck window. The nebula outside had not changed. He had. That was the trouble with surviving: you outlive the version of yourself that belonged somewhere.
THE WEIGHT OF QUIET PLACES
