Memories return

The corridors beyond the cryobay were dim and claustrophobic, pipes and wiring dangling from torn panels overhead. Emergency lights throbbed at erratic intervals, throwing jagged shadows that seemed to lurch toward them as they moved.

Sarah—the name fell into place suddenly, solid and certain. Sarah Mills.

Each step jarred loose more fragments. She was the logistics officer. Transport ship. Supplies. New colony. Food, equipment, settlers.

She stumbled, clutching the wall for support as her vision swam. Devlin noticed but said nothing, just slowed his pace to match hers.

"Destination was Carthage," she rasped. "The colony."

Devlin threw a glance over his shoulder, eyebrows raising slightly. "That's right. You’re remembering. Good."

Sarah’s stomach twisted. She remembered more now — smiling faces of young colonists, carefully packed crates of seeds and industrial tools, the sterile, almost jubilant ceremony before launch. Now, those memories felt like relics from a dead world.

The ship moaned again, a long, low sound like something massive shifting just out of sight. Sarah swallowed hard.

Finally, they reached the galley. Devlin shoved the door open with a grunt. The interior was lit with flickering strips of tired yellow light, the air warmer here, carrying a faint but welcome aroma of something savory.

"Made some stew," he said, voice sheepish. "Found a few emergency rations that weren’t spoiled. It’s not gourmet, but..."

Sarah’s stomach answered with a loud, aching growl. She allowed herself a small, fragile smile.

In the center of the room, a battered pot sat atop a portable heating unit, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. Two dented metal bowls waited beside it.

Devlin busied himself ladling out portions, his hands steady now, focused. He offered her a bowl, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Eat," he said simply. "You need it."

Sarah took the bowl, the warmth seeping into her frozen fingers. She sank onto a bolted-down bench, staring into the thick, fragrant stew. For a moment, the simple act of holding real food was enough to steady her spinning thoughts.

Devlin sat across from her, hunched over his own meal, the silence between them heavier than words. Somewhere deep in the ship, metal groaned again, and the lights flickered.

Sarah lifted the spoon to her lips, hesitated, then took a tentative sip. The stew was salty and lukewarm, but it tasted like survival.

She ate.

For now, that was enough.