He took a room near the dock. Not temporary housing, not quarters—just a room. A place with a sink that ran when turned, fabric that needed washing, surfaces that showed fingerprints if left unattended. The kind of place that did not care who he had been.
The first night, he slept without the ship’s hum under his spine. The silence was not dramatic. It didn’t feel earned. It didn’t reward him. It simply existed, and his body accepted it without protest.
In the morning, there was no departure board.
No next vector.
He noticed hunger arrive softly, without demand. He ate simply. He cleaned up after himself. The repetition didn’t register as maintenance or ritual; it registered as continuity.
Outside, traffic moved. People left for reasons that had nothing to do with him. Others arrived carrying stories he would never need to hear. The world went on, uncurated.
He didn’t feel excitement.
He didn’t feel loss.
He felt unassigned.
And for the first time, that wasn’t frightening.
Home would come later—not as a destination, but as a condition. Transit would return someday—not as escape, but as choice. Neither was required now.
The ship was behind him. The planet ahead of him was irrelevant.
What mattered was this:
He was finally living at the speed his nervous system could keep.
No countdown.
No rush.
Just the quiet competence of a life that had learned how to stay.
WE&P by: EZorrillaMc&Co.
Travel in Life 