Dust Light

Part I: Exit Shift

The drill line went quiet three minutes before shift end. Not a clean stop, more of a wheeze, like the machine had to think about dying first. Orren stood with his back against the wall, waiting for the second siren. His wrists ached. His mask itched. Every breath came through a filter the color of iron filings.

When the light above the door flashed green, he unclipped the bolt hammer from his belt and stepped into the decompression bay. The hatch sealed behind him. A cold mist hissed from the ceiling jets, decontaminating the dust. He held his arms out, though no one checked anymore.

The outer door unlatched.

The corridor beyond was a long, gray throat lit by panels that buzzed faintly in the stale air. It ran half a kilometer, straight and featureless, from the mine access to the habitat dome. Cable runners. Metal floor. Air vents overhead.

Orren walked it like he always did. Seventeen steps, stop to stretch his back. Forty-eight more, until the slope changed. He knew every dent, every panel seam. He could walk it blind.

Which is why he stopped when he saw her.

She sat near the left-hand wall, knees pulled in, arms around her legs. The lighting overhead flickered once, then steadied. He blinked. She didn’t move.

Small frame. Long hair. No helmet, no ID patch, no safety harness. Just a work suit smeared with black mineral dust. Her boots didn’t match. Her face was half-hidden, but her eyes weren’t.

She was watching him.

Orren stood still. The air in his respirator felt suddenly thin.

There weren’t supposed to be kids here. The only ones on Orcus Station were foreman brats, and they weren’t allowed past the central dome.

This girl looked like she’d been working.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Something about her expression — calm, like she already knew what he was going to do — pulled the words back down.

He turned and kept walking.

Didn’t look again.

Didn’t run. Just moved. One boot in front of the other.

By the time he reached the dome access hatch, his palms were damp inside the gloves. The light above the door blinked red, then green. He stepped inside.

The hatch sealed shut.

The corridor was gone.

He stood in the airlock a moment longer, heart knocking once, then again.

He didn’t look back.

Part II: Echoes in the Bunk

Orren didn’t speak to anyone on the way in. He waved his badge at the checkpoint, passed the cafeteria without stopping, took the stairs instead of the lift. The dome always ran too warm in the evenings. The vents pumped recycled air heavy with humidity, and the walls sweated.

Inside his dorm, the light came on too bright. He dimmed it and dropped his work belt in the crate by the door. The room was barely wider than the bunk. Just a bed, a fold-out table, a locker, and a console that hadn’t worked since he spilled broth on it two contracts ago.

He sat on the edge of the bed and peeled back the food tray — noodles in some kind of gray sauce. He didn’t remember ordering it. He took two bites, then stopped. The taste was fine. It wasn’t the food.

He stood and pulled down the small tin from the top of his locker. Inside was a photo, folded twice, kept smooth as best he could. Marla. Six years old. Grinning with both arms around a sunburned dog. One front tooth missing. The sleeve of her shirt smeared with jam.

He had another photo of her somewhere — older, graduation day — but he never printed it.

This was the version of her he could live with.

She’d be twenty-six now. Last message came three years ago. Before that, two more years of silence. When she stopped responding, he didn’t fight it. Just signed a new contract and went up. Earth was too small with her on it.

He stared at the photo a little longer. Then folded it back into the tin.

His boots were by the door. His jacket hung on the back of the chair. He didn’t think about it. Just moved.

The corridors were quiet at night. Lights dimmed for sleep cycle. A janitor bot polished floor panels, its wheels squeaking every few rotations. The vents whispered overhead.

He didn’t hesitate when he reached the corridor.

Same tunnel. Same buzz. Same strip lights. A few flickered. A few were dead.

She was there.

Same place. Same posture. Arms around her knees, head down. Her chin lifted as he approached. Her eyes opened.

She looked at him the way she had before. Not surprised. Not afraid.

He took a slow step forward.

"You know it’s not safe here," he said. "Let’s get you back to your family."

She blinked.

Then tilted her head.

"You see me?" she asked.

A pause.

Then, softly, like she needed to be sure —

"Like for real?"

Part III: The Question

He stared at her. She stared back.

There was no movement for a moment, just the hum of the corridor fans like a low whisper behind them.

He knelt slowly, keeping a little distance. It felt like approaching a fragile animal.

"You’re real," he said.

She gave a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

"People stop looking after a while," she said. "Then you’re just part of the room."

Orren felt a ripple of something in his chest. Unease. Not fear exactly, but something sour.

"What’s your name?"

She looked down at her hands.

"They used to call me Mira."

"Used to?"

"I haven’t heard it in a while."

He shifted. The floor was colder than it should’ve been.

"Where’s your family?"

"I don’t think they’re here anymore."

"You live on the station?"

"I used to."

He studied her. The jumpsuit looked old. The boots didn’t match. Her eyes didn’t move much.

"What’s the date today?" she asked suddenly.

He blinked. "September fourth."

She didn’t react, like the answer didn’t matter.

"Is it still warm on Earth?"

"It’s getting cooler."

She nodded like that was good news.

Orren touched the wall beside him. It was oddly warm. His head throbbed. His breathing felt tight. He adjusted his mask, but it didn’t help. His vision was starting to blur at the edges.

"You alright?" she asked.

He looked up. Her head was tilted again.

"Just tired."

"You should rest," she said. "Before you stop seeing things too."

"What does that mean?"

She didn’t answer. She looked past him down the corridor.

"You have a name?" he asked.

"I told you. Mira."

"I mean a full name."

She gave him a look like she didn’t understand the question.

"You have a daughter?" she asked.

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t push.

The headache behind his eyes sharpened. The floor felt like it was tilting under him.

"I’ll come back," he said.

She didn’t move.

"Don’t go too far."

"I can’t," she said. "I don’t know where the door is anymore."

He stood, slowly. Her eyes followed him the whole way up. He turned and walked without looking back.

Part IV: The Filter

The next shift came too fast. Orren barely remembered getting back to his bunk. He’d left his jacket on the floor. His boots were still damp. He hadn’t slept, just stared at the ceiling.

The drills screamed through the walls like normal. Metal on rock. Dust in the vents. He worked his position without incident. No dizziness. No swimming vision. Everything looked sharper.

Too sharp.

At the halfway mark, he found Weller near the auxiliary bay, checking feed lines.

"You ever see a kid around the mine corridor?" Orren asked.

Weller looked up.

"A kid?"

"Yeah. Ten or eleven. Long hair. Sitting on the floor."

Weller squinted at him.

"You joking?"

"No."

"You been swapping your filter?"

"What?"

"Your air filter. You changed it?"

Orren reached up to the cartridge clipped under his rebreather collar. Unlatched it. Weller leaned closer and let out a low whistle.

"That’s a death sentence."

The filter was packed solid. Black as coal, slick at the seams.

"You’ve been breathing raw particulate. Probably cooked your nerves."

He pulled a fresh cartridge from his belt and handed it over. "Clip that in. Deep breath. Try not to pass out."

Orren did. The air came smoother, cleaner. His chest expanded easier. The headache began to drain.

"She looked real," he said after a pause.

"They always do," Weller replied, tightening a bolt. "You ever work Cerberus outpost? Miners there saw kids all the time. Or dogs. Some guy swore he played chess with a priest for a week."

Orren didn’t reply.

"You’ll be fine," Weller said. "Just don’t let it dig in. That’s how it gets you."

He walked off, humming.

Orren stood a while longer, holding the dead filter. His thumb ran along a scratch on the side.

That night, he walked the corridor again.

No Mira.

No smell.

No sound.

Just the hum of the vents and the faint chill under his boots.

Part V: Dustlight

The corridor hadn’t changed. Same hum. Same overhead lights. Same stretch of metal lined with scuff marks and shallow dents.

Orren walked slowly. Not scanning. Not rushing. He already knew.

The spot where she’d sat was empty.

No shadow. No scuffed dust. Just clean corridor and the faint vibration underfoot.

He stood a long moment, breathing through the fresh filter. The air was smooth. Cool. Too clean.

He knelt anyway. Not because he saw something — because he felt something.

Near the base of the wall, half-lit by a floor panel, was a small metal fork. Dented. Bent at the middle tine. The kind that came with rations two cycles ago.

He picked it up.

It was warm.

He opened the tin he kept in his chest pocket. Unfolded the photo of Marla — six years old, grinning, hair tangled. That wide, gap-toothed smile.

He placed the fork beside the photo and closed the lid.

Then reached back behind his shoulder and unclipped the clean filter Weller had given him.

Held it in his hand for a second.

Then pulled the old one from his jacket pocket. Clogged. Cracked at the seam. Black dust flaked off as he slid it into place and sealed the latch.

He inhaled.

The air hit his lungs like rust.

He stood.

Walked through the corridor, tin against his chest.

The lights stretched ahead in pale silence.

And he didn’t look back.