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They were pinned with her charcoal sketches
Progress as virtue. Motion as meaning. Improvement without finish.
The unit of meaning shrank
“You’re reacting to the symptom,” Elara said.
The feeling is fond, not restless. Like remembering a place without packing a bag.
It was a complex spiral of translucent violet petals
Opposite side of the planet. Night there.
“It’s wilting,” Elara said, her hand still on the valve. “I’m fixing the intake.”
For twenty years, that was how she had said “I care about you”—by fixing things
Clarity without motion. Expression without displacemen
She wasn’t saving the station today. She was just washing her hands
The ship remained part of him. But the mission had ended.

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