Chapter 12 · free to read
Nine years of Sela Ovid's handwriting sat on the shelf above. Beneath it, twenty-eight years of somebody else's.
The voice on the 2019 tape was not Ada Meridian's. It was a man, and he was calm, and he was reading out berth assignments.
Not lookalikes. The same chipped tooth. The same scar through the same eyebrow. Kestrel-9 had been taking arrivals since before Corvin had a licence.
Mira Solt's face was in a photograph taken eleven years before Mira Solt reported aboard. He had spent four days grieving her as the last real thing on the station.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.