Silence.
The kind of silence that swallows everything.
One second, the ship had been roaring, straining, fighting tooth and nail against Mars' gravity. The next, it was gone. The deafening tremors, the wailing alarms, the gut-wrenching vibrations—all replaced by absolute stillness.
I floated.
For the first time since the crash, I wasn't being crushed, wasn't bracing against a force greater than myself.
The ship had stopped rattling.
I had stopped falling.
I let out a slow, shaking breath, watching as droplets of sweat detached from my forehead and into my mask and helmet. My fingers twitched against the harness, my body still expecting weight, expecting pressure—but there was nothing.
No ground beneath me. No force pushing me down. Just space.
I had done it.
Mars was behind me.
And Earth—Earth was waiting.
