The days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Their routines kept them alive, but routine also made the silence heavier.
Every morning, Rose led patrols around the camp, checking the land. Edward studied the stars, recording constellations that no human eyes had ever seen. Jane handled health check-ups, taking blood, measuring vitals, reporting in her logbook.
Donald became the storyteller. At night by the fire, with sparks drifting into the cool air, he spoke of Earth—the smell of baseball fields in summer, the sound of children laughing in parks, the taste of street food on a rainy night. His words painted pictures that made the younger crew ache with longing.
Every evening, Rose ordered the transmitter activated. "HQ, this is Team Elpis. Do you read? Over."
Static answered her. Every time.
They still clung to hope, but it grew thinner with each passing day.
One evening, Josh started teasing again. "So, Doc," he said, leaning lazily against the firelight, "when are you going to admit you like me?"
Jane rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed red. "I-I don't you idiot."
The others chuckled, but beneath the jokes there was warmth. Josh had stopped being just a joker—he looked out for Jane when she worked late, carried supplies without being asked, and sat by her when she looked tired. Their bond was growing, even if Jane tried to hide it.
Rose and Edward too had changed. They were often seen talking by the stream, sometimes smiling with each other—a smile different from the one she wore as captain. Edward gave her space to be human, not just commander.
Donald noticed it all. He never said a word, but he wrote it down in his journal. "Even in this unknown land, you can smell spring in the air. The young ones are finding love. Perhaps life finds a way even here."
Still, the unanswered silence from Earth haunted them.
But for now, they laughed. They ate. They lived.
And somewhere in the stars, Earth burned, though they did not yet know it.