“Please come home. We miss you.”
I’m not sure if I ever want to “go home.”
The message blinks on the little screen of my comms unit, the words stark against the green glow. I shove it back into my pocket and pull my jacket tighter. Out here, the wind is the only voice, whispering through the tall, yellow grasses that cover these hills. It carries the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers after the long rain that moved south overnight.
Two moons and a ringed giant hang in the sky, a constant, silent audience. I love it here. “Home” was recycled air and crowded corridors, a million people telling me who I should be. Here, the only path is the one I make with my own two feet. They say they miss me, but do they miss me, or the space I was supposed to fill? In this valley, vast and empty and all mine, I feel more at home than I ever have before.
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