journal entry, handwritten.
41.03.01.
We were so lucky. So wrong to say — telling a man at least his wife escaped, while their home burns down around the children. Entire squads gone. We lost so few.
But… Salt. Salt.
Took two days to realize, dragged from CAP to stims to CAP again. He's not on the flight board. The wary hesitation from the crewman when I ask. Maybe he's in Sick Bay, except he's not. I know he's not. I was there to check on Lucky. Sleet crawling through my veins until he's there on the list. HONOR THE FALLEN.
Virgon's forests are pillars of ash. It's almost a relief. Instead of the endless spin of dead ice around Picon, there is Elysium. Commended to Amelia in her summer dress.
I will burn the letter I was writing to her in Chapel. I hope they will read it.