By the time Soren left his quarters, he already knew which corridor he would take.
The decision formed before he stood, settling into place with the same quiet certainty as the rest of his morning routine. He dressed in layers chosen less for warmth than adjustability, selecting fabric he could loosen or remove without stopping. He adjusted the environmental panel down a fraction, not because the room felt too warm yet, but because it would in a few minutes if he didn't.
When he stood, the familiar sensations followed in predictable sequence: a brief lightness in his head that resolved on its own, the chill along his calves that rose and then dulled, the low, residual warmth that lingered behind his sternum like an ember that never quite went out.
He waited until everything settled into its expected balance before moving.
The corridor outside greeted him with its usual hum, the Aurelius steady beneath his feet. Crew passed him at an unhurried pace, some nodding, some offering brief greetings that did not slow their steps.
No one asked how he was feeling.
That absence barely registered anymore.
He walked, choosing the cooler route without thinking about it. The ship's layout had become something he navigated less by map and more by sensation, his body attuned to where the air circulated more freely and where heat tended to gather. He adjusted his pace instinctively, lengthening his stride when the chill sharpened, slowing when the warmth threatened to build.
At a junction near the mid-deck, someone called out, "Cooler side's open."
Soren adjusted his path with a brief nod of thanks, already angling toward the indicated corridor. The comment did not come with explanation or concern, just a piece of information offered as readily as any other logistical note.
He accepted it without comment.
The mess was already active when he arrived.
Voices blended together in a low, constant murmur, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and the soft hiss of the dispensers along the far wall. The smell of food hung in the air, warm but not overpowering, and he paused just inside the entrance long enough to orient himself.
He did not scan the room for familiar faces.
Instead, he assessed the space the way he'd learned to do recently—where the air felt less stagnant, where there was room to sit without crowding, where he could rise again without too much effort later. He chose a long bench near the outer wall, one that allowed him to stretch his legs out rather than tucking them beneath the table.
Someone slid a tray toward him as he approached.
"Lighter portion," they said casually. "Easier on the stomach."
"Thank you," Soren replied, accepting it without surprise.
The tray held exactly what he expected it to: food that was filling without being heavy, nothing too hot, nothing too rich. He sat, arranging the items with small, economical movements, and began to eat at an unhurried pace.
Conversation flowed around him.
Someone complained mildly about a delayed delivery. Someone else laughed at a story that didn't quite reach him over the ambient noise. A debate about optimal routing drifted past, unresolved and unimportant.
No one asked if he wanted anything else.
No one hovered.
Halfway through the meal, the warmth began to build, slow and insistent. He adjusted without pausing, loosening his collar and shifting his position on the bench so the cool of the wall pressed lightly against his back.
The sensation plateaued and stayed there.
He finished eating and set the tray aside. A hand reached out to collect it before he could stand, the movement smooth and practiced.
"Sit a moment," the crew member said, already stacking the dishes. "Less draft if you wait."
Soren nodded and stayed where he was, letting the residual warmth ebb before moving again.
When he did stand, it was with the same careful economy he'd developed over the past several days. No rush. No unnecessary exertion. He felt no embarrassment in the adjustment.
The mess continued on without him as he left.
He took the long way out, following a corridor that curved gently away from the central hub. The air here was cooler, the lighting softer. His steps echoed faintly, then were absorbed by the ship's constant hum.
As he walked, he passed a small maintenance alcove where a pair of crew worked quietly, tools laid out with neat precision. Their conversation was low and practical, something about timing and access points. He did not slow to listen.
Further along, he paused at an intersection to let a group pass. One of them gestured lightly. "You can take that side—less traffic."
He did.
The ship seemed to anticipate him now, small accommodations offered without fuss or ceremony. Routes opened. Space was made. It felt less like attention and more like efficiency.
He found himself near the observation window again, though this time he did not stop. He glanced at the sky in passing, registering the same layered gray as before, then continued on.
By the time he reached the upper deck access corridor, the warmth had returned, steady but manageable. He slowed slightly, letting it crest and settle, then adjusted his pace again.
A few days ago—he did not know exactly how many—this rhythm would have frustrated him. The constant need to monitor, to correct, to adapt would have felt like a distraction from more important work.
Now, it simply was.
He moved through the ship without urgency, aware of his limits without resenting them. The absence of the ledger no longer tugged at his attention. When he passed a notice board updated with recent rotations, he read it without thinking about whether he should annotate it later.
Everett had it handled.
That knowledge settled easily.
He paused briefly at a junction, resting one hand against the wall as the familiar heaviness passed through his limbs. It dissipated quickly this time, leaving behind only a faint ache in his shoulders.
He continued on.
Near the central corridor, he crossed paths with a small cluster of crew moving in the opposite direction. Voices overlapped briefly—something about supplies, a mild complaint, a quick laugh.
A voice he recognized drifted through the mix, mid-sentence, discussing timing with someone else.
Soren did not slow.
He passed them without turning his head, his attention already shifting toward the quieter corridor ahead. The conversation faded behind him, absorbed by the hum of the ship.
The moment registered only as background texture, no different from any other overlap of sound and movement in the Aurelius's constant flow.
He turned down the cooler route again, feeling the chill settle along his forearms with a sense of mild relief. His body responded predictably now, the sensations rising and falling within a narrow, familiar range.
At the far end of the corridor, he paused once more, adjusting his layers before continuing. The movement was automatic, practiced.
The ship remained steady beneath him.
No alarms sounded. No calls came over the comms. No one redirected him or stopped him to ask for input.
By the time he reached the bend that led back toward his quarters, the warmth had settled into a low, persistent presence that no longer demanded constant attention. He slowed, not because he felt unwell, but because it was the sensible thing to do.
He moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how far he could go.
As he continued down the corridor, Soren felt neither better nor worse—only adjusted, his day unfolding within parameters that no longer required explanation.
The Aurelius carried on around him, systems balanced, routines settled, the steady state holding without comment as he moved quietly through it.
_________________________
The corridor narrowed slightly as Soren moved deeper into the ship's interior, the air cooling by a degree that his body registered immediately. He adjusted his pace without thinking, slowing just enough to let the chill settle before it tipped into discomfort.
The Aurelius responded the way it always did—quietly, efficiently—its hum steady beneath his feet, the vibration even and familiar. He found himself counting his steps without realizing it, not out of habit but because the rhythm helped him track how long he'd been moving. When the warmth began to build again, he shortened his stride. When it ebbed, he lengthened it.
The process had become so ingrained that it barely registered as adaptation anymore.
He passed a storage alcove where a pair of crew were reorganizing crates, their conversation low and focused. One of them glanced up and nodded as he went by, shifting a crate just enough to widen the path.
"Clear," they said, not to him specifically, but to the space itself.
Soren walked through without breaking stride.
Further along, the corridor opened into a busier stretch, the kind that connected multiple work areas and saw a steady flow of traffic throughout the day. The air here was warmer, the lighting brighter, and he felt the familiar bloom of heat along his shoulders as soon as he entered the space.
He slowed, letting the sensation crest and settle.
A crew member passing in the opposite direction gestured casually toward a side passage. "That route's cooler if you want it."
"Thank you," Soren replied, already angling toward it.
The side passage curved away from the main flow, its ceiling slightly lower, the air moving more freely. The warmth receded almost immediately, replaced by a mild chill that he welcomed. He adjusted the layers at his wrists and continued on.
The ship felt… lived-in.
Not in the sense of clutter or noise, but in the way its routines had settled into place around the people moving through it. Nothing felt hurried. Nothing felt stalled. The Aurelius carried its crew with the quiet confidence of something that knew exactly what it was doing.
Soren passed a maintenance station where someone was recalibrating a panel, tools laid out with methodical precision. A soft hum rose and fell as adjustments were made. He did not stop to observe, trusting the work to continue without his oversight.
That trust felt natural now.
He reached another junction and paused, resting his hand briefly against the wall as the heaviness in his limbs made itself known. It passed within seconds, leaving behind only a faint ache in his calves.
He moved on.
The corridor ahead sloped gently upward, leading toward one of the mid-level workspaces. Voices carried faintly from around the bend—familiar tones layered together in conversation.
Soren did not pay them much attention at first.
He rounded the corner and caught fragments of speech, words drifting into his awareness without demanding it.
"…should be ready by second shift," someone was saying.
"That's fine," another voice replied. "As long as the alignment holds."
Soren continued forward, his focus on the way the floor plates changed texture beneath his boots, the slight increase in vibration as he moved closer to the ship's central axis.
"…Nell, did you check the seals?" the first voice asked.
"Already done," came the reply, brisk and confident. "They're solid."
Soren passed the open workspace without slowing.
Bram stood near one of the worktables, sleeves rolled up, gesturing toward a schematic while he spoke. Nell stood opposite him, leaning slightly over the surface, her attention fixed on whatever they were discussing. Tools were spread neatly between them, their postures relaxed but engaged.
Their conversation flowed easily, the kind of back-and-forth that came from shared familiarity and routine.
Soren did not turn his head.
He walked past them at a steady pace, the sound of their voices blending into the background hum of the ship. The warmth along his shoulders began to build again, and he adjusted his stride accordingly, lengthening it just enough to counter the sensation.
Neither Bram nor Nell looked up.
Not because they were avoiding him, or distracted in any meaningful way, but because their attention was where it needed to be—in the task at hand, in the conversation unfolding between them.
Soren passed out of the workspace and into the corridor beyond, the voices fading naturally behind him.
The moment did not linger.
It did not register as absence or presence, as connection missed or opportunity lost. It was simply one of countless overlaps that occurred each day aboard the Aurelius, people moving through shared spaces on parallel trajectories that did not always intersect.
He continued on, the corridor narrowing again as it curved toward a quieter section of the ship. The air cooled, the lighting softened, and the warmth receded to a manageable level.
He adjusted his layers once more, the movement smooth and practiced.
A faint ache settled behind his eyes, no sharper than it had been earlier, no duller either. He acknowledged it without concern, filing it away alongside the other sensations that had become part of his baseline.
At a junction near the upper deck access, he paused to let a group of crew pass. One of them smiled faintly in greeting as they went by, offering a brief update about a completed task that Soren listened to without feeling the need to respond beyond a nod.
"Already accounted for," the crew member said, almost as an aside.
Soren nodded again, accepting the information and moving on.
He took the cooler route back toward his quarters, choosing it without conscious deliberation. The ship's layout had become a map of sensations in his mind—this corridor warmer, that one draftier, this bend a place to slow, that stretch safe to walk a little faster.
He followed the map instinctively.
The corridor near his quarters was quiet, the ambient noise reduced to the soft hum of the Aurelius and the occasional distant footstep. The warmth crept back gradually as he approached, and he slowed, letting it settle before it could spike.
He reached his door and paused, resting his palm against the cool metal for a brief moment. The contrast sent a faint shiver through him, grounding him before he keyed the door open and stepped inside.
The room sealed behind him with a quiet hiss, cutting off the corridor's sounds. Inside, the air felt warmer than the corridors he'd just left, and he adjusted the environmental panel down by a fraction without hesitation.
He set aside one layer, then another, moving carefully to avoid triggering another surge of heat. When he sat on the edge of the bunk, the heaviness returned briefly, then faded.
He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.
The absence of the ledger no longer pulled at his attention. The desk felt complete even without it, the space reorganized around different needs—rest, balance, recovery.
He did not reach for anything.
He did not think about what he might be missing.
Outside his quarters, the Aurelius continued on its course, systems running smoothly, work proceeding without interruption. People crossed paths, conversations overlapped and faded, tasks were completed and moved past.
Soren lay still, letting his body settle into the now-familiar equilibrium.
He did not feel better.
He did not feel worse.
The steady state held.
And somewhere beyond his closed door, Bram and Nell continued their work, unaware of the moment they had shared only in passing, just another ordinary overlap in the quiet, ongoing life of the ship.
___________________________