Space was huge and empty, but inside their shelter, life was anything but quiet. Some mornings, Alex woke up to the squeals of toddlers bouncing off the walls in low gravity, their little arms flailing as they tried to figure out how to walk—or float. The garden beds buzzed with soft light and the hum of water pumps, and somewhere behind it all, the engine's steady pulse reminded them they were still moving through the stars.
Alex liked to watch the others in these moments. Mia sat cross-legged with the youngest kids, tracing letters with their fingers and reading old storybooks until they giggled. Lin was usually buried in a pile of wires and strange gadgets, her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the alien tech the system seemed to cough up every few weeks. And Rhea would spend hours by the observation window, sketching out new constellations and dreaming up names for the distant, unfamiliar stars.
One night, the system surprised them all by opening up a new room—one no one remembered seeing before. Inside, walls flickered with moving pictures of Earth: green forests, bright blue rivers, city lights twinkling at dusk. For a long while, no one spoke. Alex felt a lump in his throat just watching his home, or what used to be home, parade past in ghostly color.
The memory room became a place where they could let themselves feel everything they'd lost. Sometimes, people went there to cry quietly, or just to remember. Other times, it sparked heated arguments—Mia thought they should try to rebuild what they'd lost, while Rhea wanted to let the past go and start over. Alex didn't have the answers, but he listened, knowing the only way forward was together, even if they didn't always agree.