Just for a Moment

I think the sun cracked my helmet. Not shattered—just a hairline, right across the top of my visor. I can’t tell if it’s new or if it’s been there since the crash. I think that was a few hours ago now. Either way, the light’s getting in. It bleeds red and orange over everything.

I’ve been walking, crawling for hours. Or minutes. Or days. My suit’s internal clock blinked out somewhere past the second dune, replaced by a slow-beeping warning.

[HEAT LIMIT: CRITICAL]
[HYDRATION: 0.4L REMAINING]
[HEART RATE: ELEVATED]

No shit.

I need help soon.

I thought space was supposed to be empty, frigid, cold. That’s what they always say. But this planet—or moon, or whatever it is—is all fire and sand. A heat that forces its way under your skin just to burn you from the inside out. The kind that makes even your thoughts bubble and hiss.

I chuckled at the pure thought that they were at least a little right. It was empty. Hopeless.

There’s no movement here. No wind. No clouds. The sky is a dead lid, swollen and still. Not even a bird-shaped shadow to trick the eye, provoke the mind from just staring at the nothingness. I haven’t seen anything in hours. Or is it maybe days or minutes? Not even the suit’s fans seem to whir anymore. The visor’s display is static as if to conserve energy. It’s all sand.

I stop trying to understand why my arm and part of my breast are in pain, and look up to choose a direction that spells salvation.

And now, there it is.

Something on the horizon. Squat. Dark. Rectangular. Shelter? Is it possible there is still hope?

My lips crack when I try to speak. “Base?” I croak. “Visual contact. Possible structure ahead.”

No reply. Just my own breath bouncing back from dead comms.

Part of our training at the Space Academy was to keep speaking to base. Even if there was no reply. There was always hope they could hear you.

I crawl toward it. Because what else is there to do?

The suit warns me again, flashing messages across the display.

[HEAT LIMIT CRITICAL]
[HYDRATION: 0.25L REMAINING]
[HEART RATE: ELEVATED]

I press forward, one foot at a time. My legs barely listen anymore. The object ahead wavers, but it doesn’t vanish. That’s good, I think. That’s something. At least I am not making up some mirage.

I talk again, voice raw, croaking. “Approaching structure. Roughly ten meters tall. Brown. Civilian?”

I shake my head. “Ignore that. Visual distortion may be increasing.”

The sand glows now. Like embers. My suit beeps again—oxygen dwindling. Heartbeat ragged. But my eyes won’t abandon the shape ahead. I can manage this.

[HEAT LIMIT CRITICAL]
[HYDRATION: 0.1L REMAINING]
[HEART RATE: ALARMING]

Closer. It’s... brown? Fabric? No... can’t be.

I must be dead, or dreaming.

A sofa. Not just a sofa—that sofa.

One armrest is lower than the other, fabric scuffed. The cushions dip in the same lopsided way they used to when Mom sat down with her cup of raspberry tea. There’s even a faint stain on the left seat, shaped like an old spill. A memory I thought I’d thrown away.

My visor fogs. “Base...”

My voice is quieter now. “I’ve reached the structure. It’s... it’s home?”

I dive into the cushions, landing face-first and curled into the fetal position.

My suit groans. My body groans.

Even through the suit, it feels too soft. Too real. I sink, and the cushion cradles me like it used to on quiet Sunday mornings. Before space. Before command. Before the silence.

I run my gloved hand along the armrest. The stitching is worn, just like—No. I don’t know. Not fully.

“I bet…” I say softly, a crack in my throat, “I bet if I could smell the sofa, I could smell home.”

But the suit seals me in. No air. No scent. Just heat. And memory trying to claw its way out of the haze.

The sofa breathes with me now. Or maybe that’s just the wind?

I lean my head back and let the suit hum in my ears.

[HEAT LIMIT CRITICAL]
[HYDRATION: DEPLETED]
[HEART RATE: SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION]

The warnings still flash across my visor, but they blur, fade, become part of the sky.

“Mission Specialist Maya to base,” I weakly murmur, “still transmitting. I need immediate assistance, please help me.”

I smile. I think I smile. Somewhere, someone is listening.

“I love you mum...”

The cushion holds me like arms. The heat no longer burns. It wraps. Cradles. Like summer sun through a window. Like home.

A shadow moves across the sand.

Could be a ship.
Could be a cloud.
Could be my dying brain.
Could be nothing.

I close my eyes.

Just for a moment.