Soren entered the mess at an unremarkable hour.
Not early enough to catch the rush, not late enough for the room to thin into its quieter, end-of-cycle lull. The space held a steady hum—voices layered low over one another, the clink of cutlery against trays, the soft hiss of dispensers cycling through another routine morning.
He paused just inside the threshold, more out of habit than necessity, and scanned the room with a glance that carried no particular intent. He wasn't looking for anyone. He wasn't avoiding anyone. He simply took the space in, the way he always did.
Everything was where it should be.
He shifted his path toward the counter, intending to collect something small before finding a seat. That was when he saw Tamsin.
She stood near the dispensers, one elbow resting lightly against the counter as she waited, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had done this often enough that the space no longer demanded her attention. Her hair was pulled back more loosely than usual, the ends escaping their tie, and she was reading something on a narrow slate held low against her hip.
The sight did not stop him.
It registered, passed through him, and settled into place without friction.
Tamsin was here. That was all.
She glanced up as the dispenser chimed, her gaze sweeping the room briefly before dropping back to the slate. She did not see him yet, or if she did, she did not react.
"Hey—Soren!"
Nell's voice cut across the room with easy familiarity. She sat at one of the longer tables near the outer wall, a half-finished meal in front of her, one boot hooked casually around the rung of the bench.
She lifted a hand in his direction, already smiling.
"Over here," she called. "You look like you're about to wander off."
He adjusted course without thinking and made his way toward her table. As he approached, Tamsin looked up again, this time catching sight of him as he passed.
She lifted her chin in greeting.
"Soren," she said.
"Tamsin," he replied.
Their exchange was brief, unweighted. She turned back to the counter as he reached Nell, sliding the slate away and collecting her drink as the dispenser finished its cycle.
"You're late," Nell said, nudging the bench aside with her foot to make room for him.
"Am I?" Soren asked, sitting.
"For you," she replied. "I was halfway through my meal before I realized you weren't already here."
He accepted the observation with a small shrug and reached for a cup, filling it before settling back. The motion felt natural, unforced. His body moved as expected, responding without hesitation or complaint.
"Back to normal, then?" Nell asked, glancing at him over the rim of her cup.
"So it seems."
"Good," she said. "About time."
Tamsin joined them then, setting her drink down on the table and leaning lightly against its edge rather than sitting. She looked between them, one brow lifting slightly.
"I hear you caused a bit of concern," she said, tone casual.
"Briefly," Soren replied.
"Rysen camped out in your quarters," Nell added. "I passed him this morning. He looked like he hadn't slept."
Tamsin made a face. "That tracks."
Soren took a sip of his drink, letting the warmth settle. "I'm told I overcorrected."
Tamsin snorted softly. "Bodies do that. Ships too, if you let them."
Nell glanced between them. "Speaking of ships—did either of you hear about the intake variance on the port stabilizer yesterday?"
"No," Soren said.
Tamsin nodded. "Minor. Logged and adjusted. It's already forgotten."
"That's the best kind of problem," Nell said.
They fell into easy conversation after that, the kind that didn't require careful steering. Tamsin mentioned a minor delay in a supply requisition that had resolved itself without escalation. Nell complained lightly about a shift rotation that left her perpetually catching everyone else's slack. Soren listened, interjecting occasionally, the rhythm familiar and comfortable.
At no point did the conversation drift toward anything heavier.
No one mentioned the collapse. No one asked him how he really felt. No one treated his presence as fragile or provisional. He was simply there, part of the table, contributing when appropriate and observing when not.
Tamsin finished her drink and checked her slate again, thumb flicking across the surface.
"I should go," she said. "I've got logistics to report."
"Atticus?" Nell asked.
"Where else," Tamsin replied, rolling her eyes slightly.
She straightened, adjusting the strap of her bag across her shoulder, then glanced at Soren.
"Good to see you upright," she said. "Try not to scare the medics again."
"I'll do my best."
She smiled at that, brief and genuine, then turned and moved away, weaving through the tables with practiced ease.
Nell watched her go for a moment, then turned back to Soren.
"She's been busy," she said. "More than usual."
"Isn't she always?"
"True," Nell conceded. She finished the last of her meal and leaned back, stretching her arms overhead. "You heading out?"
"Yes."
"Lower deck?"
"Eventually."
Nell nodded. "Don't disappear again."
He smiled faintly. "I wasn't aware I had."
She waved the comment away, already gathering her things. "You know what I mean."
They parted without ceremony, Nell heading toward the exit and Soren lingering just long enough to finish his drink before standing. He moved through the mess at an easy pace, the space parting around him without resistance.
No one called after him.
No one watched him go.
Outside, the corridor greeted him with its usual coolness. He turned toward the lower decks, descending at an unhurried pace. The ship's interior unfolded around him in a series of familiar passages, each one carrying the same steady hum beneath his feet.
He walked.
The lower deck corridors were active but orderly, crew moving through their tasks with quiet efficiency. He passed maintenance bays, storage compartments, small clusters of conversation that resolved themselves as quickly as they formed.
Nothing stood out.
He continued on to the mid-deck, following the long corridor that curved gently along the ship's spine. Light shifted subtly as he moved, panels adjusting to compensate for changes outside the hull. He noted it without recording it, the observation registering and then passing on.
This, too, was ordinary.
When he reached the upper hallway again, he slowed, orienting himself toward the alcove. The recessed space waited as it always did, open and unclaimed, the desk and chair exactly where he'd left them.
He stepped into it and set his cup aside, resting his hands briefly against the desk's surface.
The ledger lay where he had placed it earlier.
He sat and opened it, pen already in hand, posture settling into its familiar alignment. The act of writing waited for him, patient and precise.
_________________________
Soren remained seated for a few moments after opening the ledger, pen resting lightly between his fingers.
He did not begin writing immediately.
Not out of hesitation, but out of habit. He had learned that the first impulse to record was often the least precise; it was better to allow the shape of the moment to settle before committing it to the page. The alcove was quiet enough for that, open to the corridor but removed from it, the low murmur of passing voices softened by distance.
He closed the ledger again and stood.
Movement first, then record.
The decision was unremarkable, made without deliberation. He stepped out of the alcove and into the corridor, turning toward the lower decks once more. The upper hallway was calm, the light filtering in through the panels along the outer wall steady and diffuse.
He took the stairs down at an easy pace, one hand brushing the rail out of reflex rather than necessity. His steps were even, his breathing unlabored. The faint timing lag he had noticed earlier accompanied him still, but it was so slight that it registered only as a vague sense of moderation, as though his body preferred to confirm each movement before executing it.
It did not slow him.
The lower deck greeted him with the familiar smells of machinery and processed air, the soundscape shifting subtly as he descended. Here, the hum of the Aurelius carried a different quality—deeper, more resonant—vibrating faintly through the soles of his boots.
He walked without destination, letting the corridors carry him where they would.
He passed a maintenance team clustered around an open panel, their conversation focused and technical. Someone laughed softly at a remark he didn't catch, and the sound echoed briefly before being absorbed by the ship's bulk.
Further along, a storage bay door stood open, crates stacked neatly inside, inventory tags affixed with precise uniformity. Nothing was out of place. Nothing demanded attention.
Soren paused at the threshold, glancing in out of idle curiosity, then moved on.
The mid-deck corridors felt warmer, the air circulation subtly adjusted to accommodate increased traffic. Crew members moved through the space with the quiet efficiency that came from long familiarity, sidestepping one another without comment, exchanges brief and purposeful.
He caught fragments of conversation as he passed.
"…already recalibrated—"
"…shouldn't take long—"
"…after the next cycle—"
Each thread resolved itself without his involvement, the ship's routines unfolding independently of his presence.
That, he reflected, was as it should be.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a crew member exiting a side passage. They both stopped instinctively, then adjusted, murmuring apologies before continuing on their respective paths.
The exchange barely registered.
Soren continued on, the sense of normalcy deepening with each step. The Aurelius felt cohesive, its systems responsive, its people engaged. If there were inefficiencies, they were minor enough to dissolve on contact, handled before they could accumulate.
He slowed near a junction where a corridor branched toward the cargo holds, pausing to orient himself. For a fraction of a second, he hesitated—uncertain which route he had intended to take.
The sensation was fleeting.
He chose a direction and moved on, the moment already fading into irrelevance. The hesitation felt personal rather than external, a matter of attention rather than circumstance.
He dismissed it.
By the time he reached the central spine of the ship again, he had walked long enough that the urge to record returned, gentle but persistent. The movement had served its purpose, grounding him in the physical reality of the Aurelius, reaffirming its stability through repetition.
He turned back toward the upper hallway.
The ascent felt no different from the descent, his body adjusting smoothly to the change in pressure and temperature. He passed several familiar faces along the way, exchanging nods and brief greetings that carried no weight beyond courtesy.
At the top of the stairs, the upper corridor opened before him once more, light spilling in from the outer panels in pale bands. The alcove waited ahead, recessed and unchanged.
He stepped into it and reclaimed his seat.
This time, he opened the ledger without delay.
The pen moved easily in his hand as he began to write, the words forming with the same measured clarity that had always characterized his entries. He recorded the morning's routine succinctly: the mess, the conversation with Nell and Tamsin, Tamsin's departure to report logistics to Atticus.
He noted the walk through the lower and mid-decks, the absence of anomalies, the steady function of systems and crew. His tone remained neutral, observational rather than interpretive.
There was nothing to analyze.
He paused briefly, pen hovering above the page, then added a line about his own condition—recovery sustained, no recurrence of symptoms during routine activity. The notation felt appropriate, factual, unembellished.
He did not mention the faint timing lag.
Not because he was hiding it, but because it did not yet feel like something that belonged in the record. It was an internal calibration issue, subtle enough to be managed without notation.
If it persisted, he could revisit the decision.
For now, it remained unrecorded.
He turned the page and continued, the act of writing settling into its familiar rhythm. The alcove remained quiet around him, the corridor's distant activity reduced to a soft, ambient presence that neither intruded nor demanded attention.
Time passed without announcement.
When he eventually closed the ledger, it was with the same careful deliberation he always used, fingers smoothing the cover once before letting go. He set the pen alongside it, aligning both objects neatly on the desk.
The day felt complete.
Not finished, exactly—there were still hours left to it—but settled, its shape defined and coherent. Soren leaned back slightly, hands resting on his thighs, and allowed himself a moment of stillness.
The Aurelius hummed on.
Nothing pressed at the edges of his awareness. Nothing demanded interpretation or response. The ship carried its course, the crew their routines, and Soren his role among them.
Ordinary, he thought.
And for now, that was enough.
_____________________________