suspended in a kind of grace—alone

A freighter drifted beyond the last refueling ring, its hull catching the faint shimmer of a dying star. Inside, the pilot sat cross-legged before the glass, helmet off, listening to the low throb of the engines syncing with her pulse.

Outside, bits of frozen metal spun past like silver prayers. She reached for the control stick but didn’t move it—just rested her hand there, as if steadying time itself. The navigation lights pulsed in quiet sequence: violet, indigo, rose.

She wasn’t running anymore, not chasing either. Just suspended in a kind of grace—alone, but tuned. Every oscillation from the engines rose and fell like breath. Somewhere between orbit and oblivion, she found a rhythm that asked for nothing and gave everything back in return.

WE&P by: EZorrillaMc.