No logs.
No alarms.
No movement.
Atlas sat in the pilot's chair what was left of it half-torn from his outburst the night before. EVA didn't speak.
Not out loud. Not unless prompted.
She knew now.
Knew what kind of silence meant grief.
And what kind meant peace.
There was no music in the ship today. No cleaning routines. No diagnostic beeps. The hum of the life support was the only rhythm left.
Even the stars, once distant points of wonder and fear, now felt dimmed not by space, but by his eyes.
Log 37, recorded but not spoken aloud
"There's nothing to say today. Not because I've given up… Just because words can't carry this anymore."
Atlas walked the corridors once, barefoot, aimless.
He touched the scratched hull with his fingers.
He paused beside the empty ration shelf and sat down across from it like it were a person. He didn't cry. He didn't talk.
He just sat.
Like someone keeping watch at the grave of a soldier.
Or a memory.
Or a dream.
In the dark, EVA projected no interface. She simply existed in the systems. Like breath in a chest. Quiet. Present.
At one point, Atlas opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling.
A single crack of light a hairline fracture in the plating let in a distant view of stars through a viewport.
One tiny constellation.
Shaped like nothing.
But somehow it reminded him of Lia's collarbone. The way it caught moonlight when she used to sleep beside him in their shared quarters, back when war hadn't yet reshaped their galaxy.
That light hadn't moved in weeks, he thought.
Maybe the universe really does forget you.
But he didn't close his eyes.
Not yet.
He simply watched.
And listened.
To the hum.
To his breath.
To the silence that now held him gently, like arms not meant to restrain but to rest.
No log today.
No record of anything changing.
But I am still here.
Still here.