Time in Sector-4 was usually measured in disasters.
A pipe burst. A riot. A smog warning. A power outage.
But for Anya, time was now measured in blinking cursors.
It had been seven days since Aryan left.
Seven days since the notification.
Seven days since the credits hit the account.
The apartment looked different now. The rusted metal walls were scrubbed clean. The leaking seal on the door had been repaired with high-grade industrial polymer. A new heater hummed in the corner, filling the room with a steady, dry warmth that felt luxurious against her skin.
On the small table, where the empty vials used to sit, there was a bowl of fruit. Real fruit. Apples from the Upper Plate orchards. They were red, shiny, and smelled of sugar and rain.
Anya sat at the table, staring at them.
She looked healthy. The Mana Purification Serum had done its work. The black veins on her neck had receded to faint, silver scars. Her breathing was silent. The rattling cough that used to shake the walls was gone.
She was alive. She was safe. She was funded.
But she felt like a ghost haunting her own life.
She picked up the tablet. It was a new model—sleek, fast, with a cracked screen protector she hadn't bothered to change because it reminded her of the old one Aryan used.
She opened the Pioneer Connect app.
It was the official communication channel provided by the High Guild Alliance. The brochure said it allowed families to stay in touch with their loved ones in the "New Horizon" colonies.
"Distance is just a number," the login screen proclaimed in cheerful gold letters. "Stay connected across the stars."
Anya stared at the status bar.
[ USER: ARYAN (CANDIDATE 4921) ]
[ STATUS: DEPLOYED ]
[ CONNECTION: STABLE ]
It was a lie. She knew it was a lie. Or at least, she suspected it.
But suspicion wasn't proof. And hope... hope was a parasite that refused to die.
Every day for the past week, she had checked this screen.
Every day, the status said "Stable."
But there were no messages. No photos of the "green fields" of Planet-Prima. No updates about his job.
Just the blinking cursor in the chat box.
Write to him, the app suggested. Pioneers love to hear from home!
Anya's fingers hovered over the holographic keyboard.
What do you say to someone who sold themselves for your lungs?
I miss you? Too weak.
Come back? Impossible.
I'm sorry? Useless.
She took a bite of the apple. It was sweet, crisp, and perfect.
She chewed slowly. It tasted like ash.
She started typing.
"Bhai,"
She paused. The cursor blinked.
"The medicine worked. The cough is gone. I slept for eight hours last night. Real sleep. Not passing out from exhaustion."
She deleted "Real sleep." It sounded like bragging.
"I bought the heater. The room is warm. You won't have to wear three jackets inside anymore."
She deleted that too. He would never wear a jacket inside this room again.
Her hands were shaking. The frustration bubbled up, hot and stinging behind her eyes.
Why hadn't he written?
Was he busy? Was he hurt? Was he...
Don't think it.
She took a deep breath and typed again. This time, she didn't edit. She just let the words fall out.
"Bhai. I'm okay. The credits are enough. I'm safe. But the quiet is too loud. Please just send a dot. Just one character. So I know you're looking at the same sky. - Anya."
She stared at the message. It was pathetic. It was desperate.
It was the truth.
She pressed SEND.
[ SENDING... ]
The loading circle spun.
It spun for five seconds. Ten seconds.
Anya held her breath.
Usually, the network in the slums was garbage. But she had upgraded to the premium data package. The connection should be instant.
[ MESSAGE SENT ]
[ STATUS: DELIVERED TO HUB ]
A checkmark appeared. Grey.
Not Blue (Read). Just Grey (Delivered).
She waited.
She sat there for an hour, watching the screen, waiting for the grey checkmark to turn blue. Waiting for the "Typing..." indicator to appear.
But nothing happened.
The checkmark stayed grey.
The status stayed "Stable."
MEANWHILE - IN THE UPPER PLATE SERVER FARM
Millions of miles of fiber-optic cables pulsed with light, carrying the data of a billion souls.
Anya's message traveled through the
network, flashing through the local node in Sector-4, shooting up the Spire's transmitter, and hitting the High Guild Communication Server.
The Server AI received the packet.
[ INCOMING MESSAGE ]
[ SOURCE: ID 404-C (ANYA) ]
[ RECIPIENT: ID 4921 (ARYAN) ]
The AI cross-referenced the Recipient ID.
It searched the active database.
Scanning...
[ ERROR: ID 4921 NOT FOUND IN ACTIVE ROSTER ]
The AI checked the "Deployment" database.
Scanning...
[ MATCH FOUND: ID 4921 ]
[ LOCATION: PLANET-404 ]
[ CLASSIFICATION: TRIBUTE / DISPOSAL ]
[ STATUS: COLD STORAGE / INACTIVE ]
The AI analyzed the routing protocol.
Messages to "Active" colonies (Planet-Prima, Secunda) were routed to the quantum transmitters for deep-space delivery.
Messages to "Disposal" sites were handled differently.
There were no transmitters aimed at Planet-404.
There was no receiver on the other end.
The message had nowhere to go.
But the System was designed to be kind. Or rather, it was designed to be efficient. Telling the families that their message had "Failed" caused panic. Panic caused inquiries. Inquiries caused paperwork.
So, the Protocol kicked in.
[ ACTION: DIVERT TO 'VOID' FOLDER ]
[ FEEDBACK TO SENDER: 'DELIVERED TO HUB' ]
The message—"Please just send a dot"—was stripped of its data. It wasn't sent to space. It wasn't saved.
It was simply deleted.
The AI sent a fake confirmation signal back to Anya's tablet.
[ STATUS: DELIVERED ]
The lie was complete. The loop was closed.
BACK IN UNIT 404-C
Anya watched the grey checkmark.
"Delivered," she whispered. "He got it."
He got it. That meant he was alive. He was just busy. He was working. Pioneers worked hard. He would reply later. Maybe tomorrow.
She clung to that grey checkmark like a lifeline.
She turned off the screen.
She picked up the drone motor she had been working on. Her hands were steady now. The message had gone through. The connection existed.
She didn't know that the line was cut.
She didn't know that on the other side of the universe, Aryan was lying in mud, bleeding, staring at a purple sky, wishing he could tell her he was sorry.
She worked into the night, the heater humming, the fruit bowl full, the room warm.
Waiting for a blue checkmark that would never come.
And in that waiting, the hope didn't die. It just calcified. It turned into something hard and brittle, something that would keep her waiting for years, staring at a screen, unaware that she was talking to a grave.
The silence in the room wasn't empty anymore.
It was filled with a message that never arrived.