Interlude — Message 3: For When You Need a Friend

  The S.S. Cosmic Clover drifted in a slow, gentle curve through the soft-lane, her hull bathed in muted starshine. The ship’s lights had dimmed to evening mode, casting warm gold over the bridge. Most of the crew slept.

  Kessa sprawled in her bunk with a blanket cocoon and the robot bee perched on her pillow like a tiny guardian. Lyra’s soft snoring echoed faintly through the corridor — she had fallen asleep mid-schematic, stylus still in hand. Jarin rested with a medbook on his chest, lantern slippers glowing faintly beneath the blanket.

  But Kael couldn’t sleep.

  Not yet.

  The Clover felt it too. She hummed at a lower, deeper frequency — the kind that wrapped around Kael like a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  He sat alone at the bridge, legs crossed, the datapad resting in front of him on the console like a quiet invitation.

  Message Three blinked softly.

  “For When You Need a Friend.”

  Kael stared at it for a long moment.

  Then he whispered, “Okay, Jorin… I’m listening.”

  He tapped the icon.

  The screen flickered, as if shaking off years of dust.

  Jorin appeared — older than in Message 1, younger than Kael remembered him at the end. His face was lined with stories, his eyes warmer than lantern-light. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a cup of tea in hand.

  “Hey, kid,” he said softly. “If you’ve opened this one… you’re lonely.”

  Kael inhaled sharply.

  Jorin smiled — sadly, knowingly. “That’s not a failing. That’s being human.”

  He took a sip from his mug, steam drifting like a small ghost between them.

  “This message isn’t for when you’re alone,” he continued. “It’s for when you feel alone, even when people you love are right there beside you.”

  Kael’s throat tightened.

  Jorin gestured gently off-screen. “I know you, Kael. You shoulder things quietly. You try to be the calm in the storm so nobody has to worry about you.”

  Kael looked down. The Clover’s hum deepened — supportive, warm.

  Jorin went on.

  “You’re the kind of person who doesn’t like to ask for help. Not because you’re proud — but because you think you’re supposed to be strong for everyone. That’s a beautiful instinct… and also a lonely one.”

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  Kael swallowed hard.

  Jorin tapped the table softly. “Here’s the thing I should’ve said when you were small: you don’t need to earn friendship. You don’t need to deserve support. You just need to let people in.”

  He lifted one hand, palm facing Kael through the screen.

  “There’s a truth I learned too late — A good friend doesn’t lighten your load by carrying it. A good friend sits beside you so the load stops feeling like a punishment.”

  Kael felt his breath catch.

  “Listen to me,” Jorin said softly. “Your sister? She’d tear the stars down for you. Jarin? He’s steadier because you exist. And Lyra? That girl would set a space station on fire if you needed warmth.”

  Kael laughed — a broken, quiet sound.

  “And that ship of yours?” Jorin added, nodding toward the walls. “She listens. She knows your heartbeat. When she hums low and warm? That’s her way of answering when you’re hurting.”

  The Clover hummed, right on cue.

  Kael pressed a trembling hand to the bulkhead.

  Jorin’s voice softened even further.

  “If you’re watching this, Kael… tell someone how you feel. Doesn’t have to be poetry. Doesn’t have to be everything. Just enough to remind yourself you’re not meant to walk every lane alone.”

  He leaned in like he was sharing a secret.

  “And if the day ever comes when the universe feels too big… go find someone’s laughter. Borrow a cup of tea. Sit near people who breathe easy. That counts as friendship too.”

  He held up the mug.

  “And if you can’t find a friend in the room, come back to this message. I’ll sit with you as long as you need.”

  Kael’s chest tightened painfully.

  Jorin smiled — proud, gentle, steady.

  “Small truth for a big day: You are worth the road, Kael. Worth the help. Worth the friendship.”

  A soft pause.

  “I love you. And you’re not alone. Not even for a breath.”

  The message faded.

  The datapad dimmed.

  And the Clover hummed — a low, warm note that vibrated through the soles of Kael’s slippers and up into his ribs.

  Kael sat perfectly still.

  A single tear fell onto the datapad.

  Then—

  “Kae…?”

  Kessa’s voice — soft, sleep-rough — drifted from the hallway.

  He looked up.

  She stood there with her blanket tangled around her shoulders and the robot bee blinking sleepily in her hair.

  “You okay?” she asked gently.

  Kael didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded.

  Kessa crossed the bridge, sat beside him, and leaned her shoulder against his.

  They didn’t speak.

  They didn’t need to.

  Jarin’s quiet footsteps approached next. Lyra padded in behind him, rubbing her eyes.

  Without asking, they all sat close — knees touching, shoulders brushing, family forming a living circle around Kael.

  The Clover dimmed her lights.

  Kael looked at them — his siblings, his warmth, his lanterns.

  And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was carrying everything alone.

  “Thanks,” he whispered finally. “All of you.”

  Lyra hugged his arm tightly. Jarin rested a hand on his back. Kessa tucked her head against his shoulder.

  And the Clover hummed, a soft lullaby of metal and memory and love.

  Kael closed his eyes.

  He wasn’t alone.

  He never had been.

  And the small lights would carry them, all of them, forward.