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They were pinned with her charcoal sketches
Progress as virtue. Motion as meaning. Improvement without finish.
“It’s wilting,” Elara said, her hand still on the valve. “I’m fixing the intake.”
She wasn’t saving the station today. She was just washing her hands
She wasn’t “Elara the Fixer” or “Elara the Soldier.” She was just Elara
A letter to my future self
The Architecture of Awareness
Blueprints of Belief
The Tug
Velora Prime – USS Khitomer
motion becomes meditation
Afterword

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