They walked in silence.
The corridor stretched ahead in a familiar line of metal and recessed light, its panels humming softly beneath the Aurelius's steady systems. Soren let his steps fall into the ship's rhythm, slower than usual, measured not by urgency but by the simple act of moving forward. Beside him, Rysen matched the pace without comment—neither lagging nor guiding, simply there. It was a presence that did not ask for attention, and somehow that made it easier to breathe.
The hum of the ship was constant, low and even, threading through the walls and the floor alike. Soren focused on it deliberately, letting it fill the spaces in his thoughts that had begun to fray earlier. The sound had weight to it today, not heavier than usual, but clearer, as though the ship had drawn itself inward. He could feel it through the soles of his boots, a subtle vibration that reminded him where he was—on the Aurelius, moving forward through open sky.
A faint current of air passed through the corridor, brushing along the back of his neck and then curling past his ears. It lingered just long enough for him to notice, a soft twirl that carried no urgency, no sharpness. Soren breathed in slowly, then out, allowing the sensation to pass without chasing it. The wind did not follow. It simply moved on, absorbed back into the ship's steady circulation.
Rysen's footsteps were quiet, controlled, the sound of someone accustomed to navigating narrow spaces without disturbing others. Once, Soren felt Rysen's gaze shift toward him—not long, just enough to assess. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The awareness was enough.
They passed a junction where the corridor widened slightly, the lighting shifting a shade cooler as they moved beneath a different panel strip. The Aurelius responded with a subtle change in tone, the hum dipping and then settling again. Soren noted it absently, the way one notes a familiar habit in another person—registered, acknowledged, but not questioned.
His thoughts tried to surface, unbidden. Names, moments, the weight of something that refused to settle into place. He let them pass without grasping. Rysen hadn't asked him anything, and Soren was grateful for that. Words felt too rigid right now, too prone to fixing things in shapes he wasn't ready to examine.
They continued on, the corridor gradually narrowing as they approached the quarters wing. Here, the air felt different—still warm, still neutral, but quieter in a way that had nothing to do with sound. The ship seemed to hold itself carefully here, accommodating rest, privacy, the soft boundaries between one person and another. Soren adjusted his stride unconsciously, slowing by a fraction.
Rysen did the same.
When they reached Soren's door, he stopped. The panel beside it glowed faintly, recognizing his presence. For a moment, neither of them moved. The quiet stretched—not awkward, not tense, just present.
Soren lifted his hand and keyed the lock. The mechanism responded with a subdued click, the door sliding open with practiced smoothness. The interior of his quarters was dim, lit only by the ambient glow filtering through the narrow viewport and the low indicator lights along the wall. It looked exactly as he had left it. That, too, was grounding.
Rysen remained just outside the threshold.
"I'll come by later," Rysen said, voice even, measured. Not a question. Not an order. Simply a statement of intent. "Just to check in."
Soren nodded once. "Thank you."
The words came easily, without the hesitation that had marked so many of his responses earlier. He meant them. Rysen inclined his head in return, already stepping back, giving space without making it feel like withdrawal.
"I'll be nearby," Rysen added, almost as an afterthought. Then he turned, his steps carrying him back down the corridor toward his own quarters, which lay a short distance ahead—before Soren's, closer to the medical bay, closer to his work.
Soren watched until Rysen disappeared around the bend. Only then did he step inside and let the door slide shut behind him.
The lock engaged with a soft sound.
The hum of the Aurelius filtered in through the walls, steady as ever. Soren stood there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the quiet settle around him. The ship did not press in. It did not recede. It simply continued, holding its course through the sky.
He exhaled slowly.
For now, that was enough.
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Soren remained where he was for a long moment after the door closed behind him.
The quarters settled around him with the familiar, sealed quiet of a space designed for rest. The Aurelius's hum was present but distant here—filtered through layered panels and reinforced bulkheads until it became less a sound than a condition, something felt more than heard. The air carried the faint warmth of recycled circulation, steady and even.
He exhaled slowly.
The day had not ended, not properly, but the ship had shifted into a gentler rhythm. He could feel it in the way the floor no longer vibrated with overlapping foot traffic, in how the corridor outside had fallen into intermittent silence between passing steps. Everything was still moving. Everything was functioning. It was simply quieter.
Soren set his coat aside and changed into fresh clothes with deliberate care. Each movement was unhurried, precise, as though he were following a routine not just to prepare himself, but to confirm that the routine still held. That it still worked. Fabric folded. Sleeves straightened. Nothing rushed, nothing skipped.
At the basin, he washed his face with cool water, letting it run over his wrists before pressing his palms briefly against his eyes. The sensation sharpened his awareness for a moment, clearing the edges of his thoughts without fully dispersing them. When he looked up again, his reflection appeared unchanged—perhaps a little paler, perhaps only in the lighting.
He turned away before he could linger on it.
The bed creaked softly as he sat, a sound absorbed almost immediately by the room. The dull migraine surfaced then, faint but insistent—a pressure behind his eyes that pulsed once, twice, and then settled into a low, manageable thrum. Not pain, exactly. More like a reminder. He acknowledged it without reacting, letting his shoulders relax as his breathing evened out.
Four o'clock glowed faintly on the slate by his bedside.
Still early.
There was time.
Soren reached for his ledger.
The weight of it grounded him the way it always had, the familiar balance of its spine against his palm anchoring his thoughts. He opened it carefully, smoothing the page with his thumb before positioning the pen. For a few seconds, he simply sat there, listening—to the hum beneath the floor, to the distant shift of air through the ship's systems, to his own steady breathing.
Then he began to write in slow motion.
|| Wind sustained. Directional flow remains within projected variance.
|| Ship response stable. No strain detected in structural compensation.
His script was neat, measured, consistent. The kind of handwriting that came from habit rather than intention. He wrote about the redistribution of crew, the adjustments to operations along the lower deck, the way the Aurelius continued to adapt without resistance. He noted how circulation felt marginally denser near the junctions but remained well-regulated. Nothing alarming. Nothing anomalous.
The words came seemingly easy at first.
He added a brief observation about crew pacing—efficient, if slightly subdued—and how the ship's internal systems appeared to be compensating preemptively rather than reactively. A sign of good calibration. A sign that everything was proceeding as expected.
Then his pen came to a stop.
Soren stared at the page, aware of the space beneath the last line. There were things he could write—minor, harmless details, additional metrics that would fill the gap—but his hand refused to move. Not from fatigue. From something closer to resistance.
He waited.
The hum continued. The room remained unchanged.
After a moment, he placed the pen down and closed the ledger gently, as if the act itself were a decision. The book rested against his knee, warm from his touch, before he set it aside on the table.
Soren leaned back against the wall and turned toward the narrow window beside the bed.
The sky beyond the hull was washed in muted yellow light, filtered through thin layers of cloud. It was not bright, but it was not dim either—an in-between state that felt neither transitional nor resolved. The Aurelius moved through it without visible effort, its passage smooth, uninterrupted.
He watched.
Time stretched quietly, not in a way that demanded attention, but in a way that allowed it. His thoughts drifted, brushing against the edges of things without settling. The migraine remained, steady but unobtrusive, like a distant echo rather than an immediate concern.
He found himself waiting, though he could not have said for what.
Eventually, Soren stood and crossed the room, resting his fingertips briefly against the cool surface of the wall. The contact grounded him again, reminding him of the ship's solidity beneath his feet. He inhaled slowly, then exhaled, letting the breath carry away whatever tension remained.
The slate still read the same hour.
Nothing had changed.
And yet, his hands felt heavy when he returned to the bed, as though something within him had stalled—not broken, not overwhelmed, simply paused. He acknowledged the sensation without naming it, without attempting to force clarity where none was forthcoming.
Soren remained there, quiet and still, as the Aurelius carried on around him.
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The knock came softly.
Not urgent. Not hesitant either. Just three measured taps against the door, evenly spaced, as if whoever stood on the other side had already decided to wait.
Soren lifted his head.
For a moment, he did nothing else. He sat there on the edge of the bed, the ledger closed beside him, his hands resting loosely against his thighs. The dull migraine lingered behind his eyes, neither worsening nor receding, simply present. The Aurelius hummed beneath the floor—steady, unchanged.
The knock came again, quieter this time.
Soren stood.
He crossed the room with an unhurried pace, his steps careful but not strained, and keyed the door open. The corridor light spilled in softly, outlining the figure beyond the threshold.
Rysen stood there, posture relaxed but attentive, his expression already settled into the calm neutrality Soren had come to associate with him. His coat was neatly fastened, sleeves pressed, the faint scent of antiseptic and recycled air clinging to him in a way that marked the medical bay more than the man himself.
"May I come in?" Rysen asked.
Soren stepped aside without comment.
The door slid shut behind them with a muted seal, and the quarters returned to their enclosed stillness. Rysen did not move further in than necessary, pausing near the entrance as his gaze swept the room—not intrusively, but thoroughly. He seemed to be assessing Soren more than the space, his attention lingering on posture, complexion, breathing.
"You look a little better," Rysen said quietly. "But not fully."
Soren exhaled, something easing in his chest at the observation. "The headache settled," he replied. "Mostly."
Rysen nodded once. "Sit."
There was no insistence in the word, but it carried weight nonetheless. Soren complied, returning to the bed as Rysen moved closer, pulling a small diagnostic tool from his pocket. The routine unfolded with familiar precision—pulse checked, pupils observed, a brief inquiry into dizziness, nausea, lingering pressure.
Rysen worked efficiently, his touch professional but gentle, movements economical and practiced. When he spoke, his tone remained even, grounding in its consistency.
"Any visual distortion?"
"No."
"Disorientation?"
"Earlier. Not now."
"And the headache?"
"Dull. Behind the eyes."
Rysen hummed softly, considering. He pressed two fingers lightly against Soren's wrist, counting in silence. The Aurelius' hum seemed to deepen in the quiet, filling the pauses between breaths.
After a moment, Rysen straightened took the blister pack of headache medication that was given to Soren and pressed onto one pocket with the pill landing on Soren's palm. "You should take one now. Another in six hours if needed. Rest today, if you can."
Soren accepted the pack, his fingers brushing briefly against Rysen's. The contact was fleeting, incidental, but it lingered in a way that surprised him—not as comfort exactly, but as reassurance.
"I will," Soren said.
Rysen studied him for a beat longer than strictly necessary, then nodded. "I was heading to the mess," he added. "You're welcome to join me."
The offer was simple. Unpressured.
Soren hesitated only briefly before agreeing. "That might be good."
They left the quarters together, the corridor opening up before them as the door sealed behind. Rysen set his pace to match Soren's without comment, slowing where necessary, adjusting his stride subtly so neither of them had to consciously compensate.
They walked in silence at first.
Soren focused on the ship—the way the air shifted slightly as they passed junctions, the subtle changes in temperature between sections, the consistent hum that underpinned everything. A faint current brushed past his ear as they turned a corner, lingering for just a moment before dissolving back into the general circulation. He found himself paying closer attention to it than usual, as though the sensation itself might steady him.
Rysen, beside him, kept his gaze forward. Occasionally, Soren caught the faintest movement as Rysen glanced his way, then looked ahead again, never lingering long enough to make the attention feel intrusive.
The mess greeted them with muted warmth.
There were people inside—voices overlapping in low conversation, the clatter of utensils against trays—but the space felt larger than usual, the noise dispersed rather than concentrated. The usual hum of activity was present, but softened, as if absorbed by the walls.
They paused near the entrance, letting the flow of movement settle around them. Soren noticed how many tables remained empty despite the hour, how several crew lingered near the counter rather than sitting. Darrick and Vivian moved briskly behind the serving area, clearly busy, though not rushed.
Vivian spotted Soren and lifted a hand in greeting. He returned the gesture instinctively, the motion easing something tight in his chest. Rysen noticed the exchange and allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile.
"I heard they're implementing changes to the mess operations," Rysen said as they moved toward a quieter corner. "Adjusting service flow to match the revised schedules."
Soren nodded. "That would explain the pacing. Operations have been shifting to accommodate the wind."
"Exactly," Rysen replied. "More personnel diverted to maintenance. Less overlap in communal spaces."
They sat as their food was prepared, conversation drifting easily between observations about the ship and the minor inconveniences that accompanied prolonged wind conditions. Nothing heavy. Nothing that required resolution.
When the food arrived, they ate in companionable quiet. Soren found that his appetite returned gradually, the migraine receding just enough to be tolerable. The warmth of the meal grounded him further, anchoring him to the present moment.
Afterward, they returned their trays to the collection counter and stepped back into the corridor together.
Rysen paused near the junction that led toward the medical bay. "I'll be heading back to finish a few things," he said. "Check in if anything changes."
"I will," Soren replied. "Thank you."
Rysen hesitated, then added, "Take care of yourself," before turning away.
Soren watched him go for a moment, then continued on alone.
The corridor felt quieter still as he walked back toward his quarters. As he passed the stairs leading to the upper deck, he slowed briefly, his gaze lifting instinctively before he caught himself.
Atticus.
The thought surfaced unbidden, then faded as quickly as it had come. Soren dismissed it without effort, rationalizing the impulse as fatigue, as habit. There was no need to seek him out. Not now.
He returned to his quarters and washed up, letting the water run longer this time, rinsing away the last of the day's residue. When he finally lay down, the ship's hum seemed closer again, wrapping around him in steady layers.
As sleep claimed him, a single thought settled into place. Lingered quietly, but undeniable:
It wasn't that Bram felt unreal—it was that everything else felt immovable.
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