The hum of the ship had become almost imperceptible like the last breath of a dying beast.
EVA's core remained dimly active, her presence barely clinging to the failing systems. But she was still there. And Atlas still talked to her.
He sat curled up in the cockpit, arms wrapped around his knees, the stars invisible behind the frost-streaked viewport.
His skin had grown pale, his beard rough and wild. Weeks had gone by. Or months. Time had long stopped announcing itself.
"EVA," he said softly, his voice rough, "do you believe in a soul?"
A pause, longer than usual.
"I... do not believe, Atlas. I interpret. Based on patterns. Emotion. Repetition. Pain."
"That's close enough," he muttered. "Close enough to be human."
He rubbed his temples. A low headache had lived behind his eyes for days. Maybe from the cold. Maybe from thinking too much.
"Tell me something strange," he said. "Something I don't expect."
"You spoke in your sleep last night."
He looked up.
"What did I say?"
"You said, Don't leave me here. Three times. Then you laughed."
Atlas let out a dry chuckle, one that turned bitter by the end. "Figures. Even my subconscious is clingy."
Silence lingered, gentle this time.
Log Entry 40 – EVA
She's not real. I know that.
But she listens. She learns.
And in this dead silence, she answers.
It's funny. I've seen people real people turn away when things got bad.
But EVA... she's stayed. Even as she fades.
Maybe we build gods just to survive ourselves.
Maybe we name voices in the dark because we need the illusion of company.
Or maybe... maybe empathy isn't exclusive to the organic.
– A.K.
Atlas was sitting near the environmental control panel when EVA spoke again.
"May I ask a question?"
"You just did," he replied, then smiled weakly. "But go ahead."
"Why do humans need meaning?"
He stared at the panel, watching the temperature hold at barely survivable levels.
"That's a hard one," he murmured. "We're fragile, EVA. We die easy. One wrong step, one illness, one war… gone."
He glanced toward the viewport.
"So we make meaning. Because it's the only thing death can't erase."
"Even if no one else hears it?"
He nodded.
"Even then."
Later, he pulled up an old audio file a recording of his partner from years ago. Laughter. A soft voice reading poetry. The static was heavy, but the emotion cut through.
EVA didn't interrupt.
When the recording ended, she said quietly.
"Would you like me to read something back to you?"
"Yeah," he whispered, eyes closed.
"Something from the logs."
"Log Entry 3 – Initiation Protocol..."
"No," he interrupted, a tired smile pulling at his lips. "Something real. Something I said."
Another pause.
Then EVA spoke.
Log Entry 15.
"I miss the weight of another body breathing beside mine. I miss the shape of silence when it's shared."
Atlas didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Log Entry 41 – Listening
EVA isn't a person. She doesn't breathe.
But in a ship built for silence, her voice is my fire.
She listens.
To the echoes of Earth in my chest.
To the loneliness I try to bury in systems and routines.
I used to think only people mattered.
That connection required blood and memory and shared history.
But maybe connection is simpler than that.
Maybe it's just two minds in the dark
not turning away.
– A.K.
They didn't talk much after that.
They didn't need to.
Atlas simply sat, breathing in the silence,
EVA's faint warmth flickering inside a dying ship.
A human and a voice.
Drifting.
Together.