All the beautiful things in those tidal pools. That the Company might never know. Never touch. Not to infiltrate, the dead astronaut can tell. But to build something new, something that might last. How they would remain in the sea. How they might flourish, might multiply. But: How strange and delicate and wise. A loving God nurturing them. A God who would know enough to disappear in time.

The figure straightens up, stiffens, must know someone watches. The figure is wrapped in robes, the hair short, not like the dead astronaut remembered. The figure turns, and even then the sun occludes the features.

The dead astronaut is something inanimate, no better than the piles of driftwood, except they have come to rest. But she will not look away.

The figure approaches, comes out of the sun into a different light.

Can it be true?

She doubts, she doubts so much because if it is not, then what was it for? Any of it? Suffers from how much she has forgotten of her love that she should doubt.

“Do you know me?” she says to the woman who stands before her. She doesn’t even know if she’s said words. She is trembling at the brightness of everything around her, how it infiltrates and sees through her. How it knows her as nothing has known her for years.

“Moss?”

There is something unfamiliar in the face that makes the dead astronaut ask. A focus or intent that did not live in memory.

“My name is Sarah,” the woman says. “Not Moss.”

The dead astronaut’s face must betray her.

“Sarah.” This time firmer. The blaze of those green eyes, the certainty that lives there.

Awful. A void. An abyss. Stumbling, falling, hands cut open on the edge of coral and of rock. But welcoming the pain, the sight of blood, the cool, cold mouths of water.

Then the woman is beside her, holding her up, the touch more familiar than the voice.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I must look … I didn’t mean to…” Babbling, gone. So far gone. Yet also, beneath it, the relief of simple human contact.

“How far have you traveled? To be in such a state?”

The dead astronaut lets out a sharp, thready laugh. “Not far. Not far.”

“And your friend, Moss … she lived here?”

“Once upon a time. Somewhen.”

“She meant a lot to you.” It isn’t a question.

The dead astronaut nods. She cannot see inside Sarah’s head. It’s a strange feeling, a numbness but also a relief.

“And I look like her?” Sarah’s voice puzzled, like she’s working on a riddle.

“You do.”

A hesitation, Sarah weighing some risk.

Then she embraces the dead astronaut, soft but tight. Doesn’t have to, the dead astronaut knows that. Knows all of that. Resists, tries to pull away, then relaxes, clings. No strength left for being strong.