Cassette Station Delta shimmered beneath the stretched-glass dome of Orbit Ten, framed by the faint glimmer of Saturn’s rings and a dusk line of slow-moving freighters. It was never truly quiet, even in the less-traveled hours. Soft arpeggios of synth melody drifted through the concourse, always in a major key. Warm lights glowed from chrome fixtures shaped like blooming flowers, casting delicate patterns over the floor, tessellated, brass-edged, and dreamily responsive to emotion.

 

The floor beneath Narell’s boots turned a low, pulsing blue.

 

He paused just past the memory gate, letting the tone scan complete its sweep. The gate lilted a confirming chime, not a bureaucratic beep, but a soft musical affirmation, like a chord you’d forgotten you loved. He stepped forward, and the lights shifted subtly to cheer him.

 

“Welcome back, Passenger 729,” murmured the nearest node, its voice gentle and strange.  Analog filters distorting a feminine tone as though recorded on tape and played back just slightly too slow. “You carry significant resonance. Would you like to archive?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

The station smelled faintly of citrus and ozone, the air recycled and scrubbed clean by filters doubling as mood sensors. Even after all this time, Narell remembered how the scent changed depending on emotional state. On his last visit, the place smelled of dust and static, farewell in its rawest form.

 

He adjusted the fall of his coat. It was black with a lining of faded synthweave, but the seams still caught the light in ripples, drawing curious flashes from the ambient mood panels overhead. The station was reading him, trying, gently, to understand him.

 

Six years. Six years since the node lights dimmed behind her as she turned away. Not flickering, but lowering, in reverence of regret.

 

She’d asked him not to come back.

 

The people around him passed like the echo of a memory in motion: silver-jacketed pilots, a courier with a smile like bottled sunshine, a cluster of students laughing too loudly over a broken music bot. No one noticed him. That was the station’s gift. If you wanted to be seen, it would shine light on you. If you didn’t, it would wrap you in the hush of forgotten dreams and leave you untouched.

 

The song playing through the corridor melted. Slow drums and soft vocals, something old, something real. He remembered this one. The kind of song that haunted him.

 

He hadn’t heard it in years, but memory didn’t need sound to survive. Just rhythm, scent, and timing.

 

And just like that, he was back there.

 

* * *

 

They stood near the center, not quite dancing, just moving.

 

Vara’s fingers brushed the edge of his collar. His hand settled at her waist like muscle memory. They didn’t speak. Not yet. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. Just inevitable.

 

The synthline swelled. She leaned in slightly, forehead to his. Her breath carried cinnamon, static, and something sweet underneath. He closed his eyes for half a second. Memorizing.

 

He reached into his coat and pressed the rhythm token into her hand.

 

She looked at it. Didn’t close her fingers around it. Just held it there, flat on her palm, like it was a question she’d already answered.

 

“I don’t want to remember this part,” she said softly.

 

He nodded and placed the token back into his pocket.

 

She’d pulled him close, one hand against his collar. The air had tasted of stardust and anticipation.

 

“I’ll stay if you ask,” he’d whispered, though he hadn’t meant it.

 

She’d said nothing.

 

* * *

 

Now, Platform Nine opened before him; a wide crescent flanked by archways lined with empathic glyphs. They glimmered softly as he approached. Silver, deep indigo. Not grief, but longing. Not regret, but remembrance. The colors conveyed nuance in a way language never could.

 

Vara stood beneath the central signpost, right where he’d always pictured her. The jacket was the same, with that still-unfinished sigil on the shoulder. Her boots were newer now. Silver had crept into her hair at the temples, braided back to reveal the fine lines around her eyes. Lines that had come from years of smiling.

 

The platform faded gently around her, as if the station, too, remembered.

 

She didn’t speak at first. Her eyes found the token in his hand, still pulsing faintly with that soft, persistent rhythm.

 

“Transfer ticket?” she asked, voice low, like testing the sound of it in the air.

 

He gave a small nod. “To nowhere. I wasn’t planning to board.”

 

She tilted her head slightly. “You’re late.”

 

“I wasn’t supposed to come at all.”

 

“No,” Vara agreed, “but if you were going to come, you should have come sooner.”

 

He looked down for a moment, thumb brushing over the edge of the token. “Didn’t even know if you’d still be here.”

 

“Neither did I.” Her voice held no blame, just the softness of something worn-in and real. “You kept the rhythm code?”

 

He opened his palm, letting the token catch the muted station light.

 

“Never played it. Just held onto it.”

 

The quiet between them wasn’t empty. It breathed. Like the pause after a last note has faded, before the memory settles in.

 

“Why now?” she asked.

 

He met her gaze, not with longing or apology, but with the calm weight of someone who’d finally run out of places to go.

 

“Because I couldn’t remember your voice,” he said.

 

She stopped, expression held, something in her stance shifted, like the floor had hummed in response.

 

Vara stepped a little closer, studying him, not with suspicion, but with a kind of careful recognition.

 

“You look like a ghost,” she whispered.

 

He let out a half-laugh. “I feel like one.”

 

Silence again, but warmer now, closer.

 

“You missed the train,” she murmured.

 

“I know.”

 

There was no accusation in it, only understanding.

 

Vara turned, walking toward the vinyl cafe tucked behind the boarding arch. Narell followed. 

Overhead, the departure board flickered once, then steadied.

 

No one left.

 

Not yet.