The airlock hissed shut with a familiar, metallic finality. Commander Eva Rostova unbuckled herself from her station, floating toward the small observation viewport. The red marble of Mars slowly rotated below, beautiful and starkly empty.
She was forty light-years from Earth, nearing the end of her five-year deep-space mining deployment. The mission was a resounding success; the cargo bay was full of rare iridium, enough to fund small nations. Yet, success felt hollow.
Her daughter, Maya, would be starting university when she returned. Her husband, David, would have more gray in his beard than when she left. She missed the simple, heavy weight of Earth's gravity—not just the physical pull, but the emotional grounding of routine: morning coffee, the sound of rain on real grass, fighting over the remote.
Her comms unit crackled, static breaking the silence of her reflection. "Commander Rostova, incoming priority one message from Earth Command."
She braced herself, pulling a floating stylus to accept the transmission. It wasn't Earth Command. It was David.
The screen flickered to life. His face, older but smiling, filled the small monitor. "Hey, Eva. Don't look so serious. Maya just got her acceptance letter! Wait till you hear where she's going."
He chatted for twenty minutes, filling her isolated capsule with the warmth and trivial joys of home. He didn’t mention the distance, the iridium, or the five years of absence. He talked about painting the fence and the new local bakery.
When the transmission ended, Eva wiped a tear that refused to fall correctly in zero-G. The red planet below seemed less a mining opportunity and more a stark reminder of the void she’d crossed.
She strapped back into her chair. The Odyssey was a marvel of engineering, but it was just machinery. Home wasn't a planet; it was the specific gravity of those two people waiting for her. She hit the engine ignition sequence. Time to go home.
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