FALL 2025, FLASH, 440 WORDS
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The ghost has always been here. You just didn’t notice her before. She is in the whomp-whomp-whomp of the air pumps. In the thunk-thunk-pomp of the waste disposal system. In the blip-blip-blip of the navigational proximity alerts. In the low growl of engines, holding the station up in orbit above the dying Earth.
She is in the scrape of white chalk on the blackboard in the station’s classroom. In the excited squeals of young students getting their first assignment right. In the voices echoing up and down the many hallways of this cosmic ark. In the songs survivors of the planet’s demise teach their space-born children.
She is in the blinking lights of dashboards. In the fluorescent green of emergency path illuminators stretching along the patched-up floors. In the endless rows of numbers rolling down the screens of the command deck. In the blaring of alarm sirens. In the thump-thump-thump of the boots of emergency team workers, running towards another unfolding crisis.
She is in the whoosh of gas escaping from the pressurized tanks in the station’s heating system. In the scalding milk of the hot white fog. She is in the hands of a woman helping you pull down the lever stuck in its upward position. In the faded ink of tattoos stretching over the taut muscles of her arms. In the rolled-up sleeves of her green overalls. “Some of us are dead, but we keep the station going,” she says and smiles, before the white vapor swallows her whole.
She is in the warm scent of cinnamon wafting from the station’s kitchens. In the rich red of tomatoes ripening in the greenhouses on Level Eight. In the crisp, clean sheets you fold into neat squares during laundry duty. In the warm sting of water in the power showers after a long shift.
She will be in the angry hiss of air escaping from the cracked faceplate of your EVA suit when the hull breach sends a broken pipe propelling into your head. Beyond the torn metal of the open rip in the station’s wall, the stars will shine bright, as distant and indifferent as ever.
When you turn over and crawl towards the breach, she will crawl with you. When you lift yourself off the floor, she will rise with you. When you stand and patch that rip up—even if you can no longer hear the air escaping, even if you no longer see the stars—she will stand with you, and together you will keep the station going.
Laila Amado is a nomadic writer of (mostly) short fiction. She writes in her second language, has recently exchanged her fourth country of residence for the fifth, and can now be found staring at the North Sea, instead of the Mediterranean. The sea, occasionally, stares back. Follow her on Bluesky @amadolaila.bsky.social