Morning arrived without announcement.
Light found its way into Soren's quarters in the same gradual manner it always did, filtered and even, settling first along the upper edge of the far wall before reaching the floor. He lay still for a moment, not because he needed to gather himself, but because there was no reason to move yet. The Aurelius carried on beneath him, a steady presence that did not demand acknowledgment. He listened to it the way one listened to breathing—aware, but not attentive.
When he did sit up, the motion was uncomplicated. No hesitation, no recalibration. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and rested his feet on the deck, feeling the faint vibration through the soles. The air in the room was cool, consistent with the ship's morning cycle. He inhaled once, then stood.
He decided, then, to wash up.
It was not part of his usual sequence. On most days, he dressed first and let the ship's rhythm pull him forward, the mess and the corridors doing the work of waking him fully. Today, the thought of water—clean, direct, uncomplicated—felt appropriate. Not corrective. Just preparatory. A way to begin with intention rather than momentum.
The washroom lights came on at his touch, soft and diffuse. He turned the water on and waited for the temperature to settle, fingers resting lightly against the edge of the basin. The sound filled the small space, a controlled rush that masked the more distant noises of the ship. When the water warmed, he leaned in and cupped it in his hands, bringing it to his face.
It felt as it should. Neither too hot nor too cold. He rinsed thoroughly, letting the water run longer than strictly necessary, listening to its steady fall. Steam gathered faintly along the mirror, blurring his reflection into indistinct shapes. He wiped it clear with the side of his hand and looked at himself without scrutiny. His face looked the same as it always did in the morning—slightly drawn, neutral, functional.
He dried off, methodically, then stepped back into the main space of his quarters.
Dressing followed familiar patterns. Shirt first, then trousers, then the outer layer he favored for its pockets and weight. Each item had its place, and he moved through them without thought. His body complied easily. When he finished, he stood still for a moment, assessing nothing in particular, then reached for the ledger.
It rested where he had left it, closed and unremarkable. He did not open it yet. There was no need.
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The corridor outside his quarters was quieter than usual, but not empty. A few crew passed in the opposite direction, their movements unhurried, their attention already elsewhere. Soren joined the flow and let it carry him forward, boots striking the deck in a steady rhythm. The ship felt awake, but not busy, as though the day had only just begun to take shape.
He reached the junction near the forward stair and slowed as someone emerged from the side passage.
Cassian looked up first, recognition crossing his face with mild surprise.
"Morning," Cassian said, adjusting the slate under his arm.
"Morning," Soren replied.
They fell into step together for a few paces, neither altering their speed to accommodate the other. Cassian glanced down the corridor ahead, then back at Soren.
"You're later than usual," he said, not accusatory, simply noting.
"I washed up," Soren said.
Cassian nodded, as though that explained everything—which, in a way, it did. "Makes sense," he said. "The mess will be thinning out by now."
"I assumed," Soren said.
They reached the next intersection, where Cassian needed to turn off toward the archive wing. He slowed, then stopped.
"I'll see you later," Cassian said.
"Later," Soren replied.
Cassian departed without ceremony, footsteps receding quickly. Soren continued on alone.
The mess doors were already open, the interior lit and warm. As he stepped inside, he registered the quieter atmosphere immediately. Fewer voices. More open tables. The hum of conversation was present, but subdued, settling into the background rather than filling the space.
He did not question it. He had arrived later than usual, and the ship's routines reflected that. Others had already eaten and moved on to their stations. The remaining crew sat in small clusters or alone, finishing meals or lingering over cups that had gone lukewarm.
Soren collected his tray and moved along the serving line. The food was consistent with what he expected—nothing elaborate, nothing lacking. He took what he needed, noting the heat rising faintly from the dish, and found a seat near the edge of the room where he could sit without interruption.
He ate at his usual pace, neither rushing nor lingering. The texture of the food was familiar, the temperature steady. He listened without eavesdropping, letting fragments of conversation pass without attaching them to meaning. A comment about a schedule adjustment. A brief exchange about a tool that needed recalibration. Nothing that required response.
When he finished, he returned the tray and stepped back into the corridor.
The traffic had picked up slightly since he'd entered the mess, though it was still lighter than the peak he was accustomed to. He moved with it, eyes drifting along the walls and ceiling as he walked. Panels were secured. Lights functioned as intended. The Aurelius presented itself without friction.
Near the mid-deck junction, he slowed.
It was nothing obvious—no malfunction, no disruption—but the spacing between two maintenance markers along the wall felt marginally different than he remembered. Not incorrect. Just adjusted. He stopped and looked more closely, counting the panels between them. The number was the same. The alignment held.
He accepted the explanation without elaboration and continued on.
At the end of the corridor, the passage widened into the exterior access bay. The air changed as he approached, cooler and carrying the faintest trace of the outside. He paused at the threshold—not out of hesitation, but because the transition invited it—then stepped forward.
Morning light spilled across the deck beyond, brighter and less filtered. The sky lay open in front of him, expansive and indifferent. The Aurelius held its course, solid beneath his feet.
Soren stepped outside the hull, letting the day continue around him.
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Outside the hull, the air moved differently.
Soren felt it immediately—not as a change, but as a condition. The wind pressed along the ship's exterior in steady layers, sliding past the Aurelius rather than striking it. It made sound as it traveled, a low, continuous movement that threaded itself through the structural elements around him. He paused just beyond the doorway, letting the door seal behind him, and stood long enough to register the balance of it.
The deck beneath his boots was firm, the surface slightly textured to keep footing secure. He shifted his weight once, testing nothing in particular, then took a few steps farther out. The sky stretched wide in front of him, pale and open, its depth softened by distance and light. The ship held its position without visible effort, its bulk steady against the moving air.
He walked along the outer platform at an unhurried pace, hands loose at his sides. The wind tugged faintly at the edges of his clothing, more suggestion than force. It was cool, but not sharp. The temperature sat within a range he recognized, the kind that invited stillness rather than retreat.
After a short distance, he stopped near one of the structural frames that rose from the deck to support the outer plating above. The frame was thick, reinforced, its surface worn smooth in places where hands had rested over time. He turned and lowered himself to the deck, sitting cross-legged with his back against the frame, the metal cool through the fabric of his clothes.
From this position, the ship felt particularly present. The vibration traveled through the frame into his spine, a muted hum that steadied rather than distracted. He adjusted his posture slightly, settling more comfortably, and let his gaze drift outward again.
Time moved.
The light shifted gradually, almost imperceptibly at first. The sky's tone deepened by a fraction, the brightness easing as the morning wore on. Soren remained where he was, breathing evenly, attention resting lightly on the sensations around him. The wind's movement stayed consistent, its sound folding into the background until it became part of the ship's own voice.
He reached for the ledger and set it across his lap.
The cover opened easily, the pages falling to the correct section with familiar compliance. He rested one hand against the edge of the book to steady it against the breeze and took a moment to orient himself on the page. The ink from earlier entries was dry, the lines clean and unremarkable.
He began to write.
Exterior conditions steady. Wind velocity within projected range. Direction consistent.
He paused, listening, then continued.
Ship maintains position without adjustment. Structural vibration uniform.
The words came without effort. He did not rush them, nor did he linger over phrasing. Each line served its purpose and no more. When he finished the entry, he closed the ledger partway, keeping a finger between the pages, and looked up again.
The sky remained open and unchanged. Clouds moved at a distance, their shapes dissolving and reforming without pattern. The Aurelius cut through the air with the same quiet assurance it always had. Soren felt no impulse to move.
Time continued to pass.
The light warmed slightly as it angled, the sun's position shifting relative to the ship's hull. The wind altered its cadence for a brief stretch—slowing, then resuming its prior rhythm—but the difference was subtle enough that it barely registered as change. Soren adjusted his grip on the ledger once, then let his hand rest again.
At some point, footsteps sounded behind him, approaching along the deck with an unhurried rhythm. He did not turn immediately. The steps slowed as they drew closer, then stopped a short distance away.
"Didn't expect to find you out here," Everett said.
Soren glanced over his shoulder. Everett stood a few paces back, hands tucked into the pockets of his outer layer, gaze angled outward toward the sky rather than at Soren himself.
"It seemed like a good place to sit," Soren said.
Everett nodded, as though he had expected that answer. He stepped closer and leaned against the railing nearby, settling his weight comfortably.
"I've been inside all day," Everett said. "The air's different out here."
"It usually is," Soren said.
They stood and sat in companionable silence for a moment, both looking outward. The wind moved around them, lifting slightly at the edges of Everett's coat.
"I finished reorganizing the secondary archive this morning," Everett said eventually. "Nothing exciting. Just shifting things into a sequence that makes more sense."
Soren nodded. "Did it improve retrieval time?"
"A little," Everett said. "Mostly it just feels better. Things line up."
"That matters," Soren said.
Everett smiled faintly at that, then shrugged. "I suppose it does."
He adjusted his stance, crossing one ankle over the other. "I noticed you've been outside more lately."
Soren considered the statement, not as an implication, but as an observation. "I had time today," he said.
"Fair enough."
They lapsed into silence again, the kind that did not require filling. Everett's presence was steady, unintrusive. The ship's hum threaded through the space between them.
After a while, Everett spoke again. "Cassian mentioned you changed your morning routine."
"Briefly," Soren said. "I washed up."
Everett chuckled softly. "Revolutionary."
"It helped," Soren said.
Everett glanced at him then, curiosity mild and unpressing. "I might try it," he said. "There are days when the archive feels like it closes in before I'm properly awake."
Soren nodded. "The ship accommodates small changes easily."
"That it does."
The light had shifted again by the time Everett pushed away from the railing. The sky carried a deeper hue now, the day easing toward afternoon. Everett straightened, hands leaving his pockets.
"I should head back in," he said. "There's a stack of entries waiting for verification."
Soren closed the ledger fully and rested it against his knee. "I'll be in later."
Everett inclined his head. "I'll see you then."
He walked back toward the doorway, footsteps fading as the door sealed behind him. The wind filled the space again, uninterrupted.
Soren remained seated for a while longer.
The deck had warmed slightly beneath him, the metal holding the day's heat. He shifted his position once, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, then leaned back against the frame again. The ship's vibration remained steady, unchanged by the passing hours.
Eventually, the angle of the light told him it was time to move on. He gathered the ledger, stood, and brushed his hands against his trousers to clear away the faint grit that clung to the fabric. The wind pressed once more at his shoulders as he turned toward the door.
Inside, the air felt warmer, contained. The corridor beyond carried the familiar sounds of the ship in motion—voices, footsteps, the low murmur of systems at work. Soren stepped back into it and let the door seal behind him.
He headed toward the mess, the rhythm of the ship settling around him as the day continued.
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