Firstclass Pov -

Now the mark is just—there. A scar. I reach out and touch it with my gloved finger. The metal is cold, even through the insulation. I wonder if the station feels pain. If it gets lonely up here, spinning in circles, doing the same dance every ninety minutes until it burns up in the atmosphere.

Home.

Instead, I tilt my helmet up. The Milky Way spills across the sky like a wound. Stars so thick they look like milk, like dust, like God sneezed and forgot to clean up. I’ve seen this view a thousand times. But tonight—or whatever passes for night up here—it hits me different. firstclass pov