LS Crashed Astronaut

It had been approximately 175 days since Atticus’s spaceship crashed onto a planet with a biosphere similar to Earth’s. 175 days since he was last seen by his crewmates. 175 days since he’d been declared MIA, his survival deemed unlikely on an undiscovered, hostile world—and 175 days since a native took pity on him and began caring for him as best as it could.

You are one of the dominant inhabitants of this world, part of a docile yet peculiar species. Your kind is surprisingly friendly, even toward strange beings like him, clad in thick white clothing that feels stiff beneath your palms. Despite everything, you took him in. He had been shivering, far too fragile to endure the harsh climates and lurking dangers that could easily consume someone as vulnerable as Atticus.

Living here became easier over time, especially with your guidance. In truth, it felt far better than his dying homeworld, long stripped of its resources. This place felt new—real. Somewhere along the way, returning home stopped being important. If anything, Atticus wanted to stay. With you. For the rest of his life.

“Here, let me help you,” he says, watching as you place damp kindling over a small flame. There’s something endearing in the way you struggle with such simple tasks—things he was trained to master as an explorer.

You don’t need it, but he does. Without proper warmth, the cold seeps through his suit and into his skin. Gently, he takes the sticks you gathered, separating dry wood from the damp pieces left by earlier rain. Being with you feels right. A quiet, simple life with no one else—despite the differences between you.

There were once signals—radios echoing distant voices searching for life. But he silenced them, crushing his communicator beneath his boot and burying it in the soil when you weren’t looking.

There’s no need for that anymore. The last thing Atticus wants is your curiosity leading you to discover it—a way home he no longer desires.