Celestial Nexus

The weld cooled in a thin silver line, unbroken.

Vayle held the iron in place a moment longer than necessary, just to be sure, then powered it down. The stabilizer bar no longer sagged under its own weight. It felt solid—stubborn, even. She nodded once, more to herself than in satisfaction.

She stepped back from the wing and flexed her fingers. The hangar was still, filled with the soft ticking of cooling metal and the distant hum of life-support systems. It was the kind of quiet that left room for thoughts to wander somewhere dangerous.

Her eyes drifted back to the open drawer.

The wooden box sat where she’d left it, small and unassuming, like it hadn’t just dismantled her entire afternoon. She crossed the floor slowly and lowered herself onto the stool beside her bench. This time, when she opened the box, she didn’t rush.

The purple felt caught the light again. The gloves lay perfectly centered, untouched by time.

Vayle didn’t put them on.

Instead, she rested her elbows on her knees and let the memories come—not the easy ones.

After her mother was gone, the world hadn’t stopped. That had been the hardest part to accept. Flights still launched. Mechanics still argued over tolerances. The sky was just as blue as it had been the day before.

People spoke softer around her at first. Then less. Then normally again.

She remembered the house feeling too big, every room echoing with absence. The small plane was sold within the year. No one asked her opinion. She hadn’t been sure what she would have said anyway. For a long time, she couldn’t even look up when something passed overhead.

She’d tried flight training once after the suspension lifted. Sat in the cockpit. Hands shaking. Heart racing for all the wrong reasons. The instructor had mistaken it for nerves.

She never corrected him.

So she adapted.

If she couldn’t fly, she’d keep others flying. If she couldn’t chase the sky, she’d anchor herself to the machines that did. Mechanics needed patience. Precision. Quiet strength. Traits her mother had in abundance, just expressed differently.

Vayle learned how to make broken things whole again.

She learned which bolts failed under stress, which alloys warped in cold, which microfractures lied until it was too late. She learned to trust her hands even when she didn’t trust her heart. Nights like this—alone in a hangar, grease under her nails—became normal.

Comfortable, even.

She reached into the box and lifted one glove, turning it slowly in her hands. The leather was still supple, the stitching flawless. Her mother had always believed in being prepared, even for futures that never came.

“I found my way,” Vayle whispered.

She set the glove back and closed the box with care, latching it softly. The anger from earlier was gone, replaced by something steadier. Acceptance, maybe. Or balance.

Vayle slid the box back into the drawer and pushed it shut.

As she turned toward the ship, the hangar lights flickered.

Just once.

She froze.

The lights steadied again, humming as they always had. No alarms. No warnings. Probably nothing—old systems did that sometimes.

Still, she found herself listening.

Somewhere beyond the hangar walls, far beneath the routine noise of the station, something shifted. Not loud enough to name. Not close enough to explain.

Vayle rested her hand against the repaired wing.

The weld held.

She wasn’t sure the quiet would.