Coltrane had just started playing Naima when the comm beeped.

Amara's fingers hovered over the tightbeam accept button. Her console light pulsed amber with Leilani's personal channel tag. She let it blink three times before she tapped the screen.

She didn't turn down the music.

Leilani's face filled the small display. She looked tired, eyes shadowed, her hair tied back with the same frayed blue scarf she had worn on their last hike in the Cascades. She didn't smile, and when she tilted her head, golden sunlight highlighted faint new lines.

"You're awake."

"I always am when the relay pings." Amara kept her voice flat. The orbital station's habitat module smelled of heated metal and faint ozone from the air scrubbers. Tenor sax curled slow and deliberate from the player clipped to her belt.

"Still listening to Coltrane."

"He's still magic."

Amara glanced at the viewport. Earth turned below, and Africa slid into view like a remembered map. They'd planned a trip there once. Leilani had wanted to see the Sossusvlei dunes at dawn. It never happened.

Leilani rubbed her thumb along her jaw, the old habit she used when deciding how much truth to give. "The lawyer's office is tomorrow. Digital witnesses. I thought you would want to know before the feed hits your inbox."

Amara felt the words settle in her chest, heavy and final.

"Thanks for the heads-up."

Silence stretched between them. The sax rose and lingered on a long note, interrupted by a faint skip. Leilani's eyes widened.

"That's our album," she said.

"I couldn't leave Naima behind. Vinyl is too heavy, but they can't stop data." Amara touched the player. The case felt warm.

Leilani had etched their initials into the original record's sleeve with a key the night they bought it. Fifth anniversary, a small club in Portland. It had been wasted as wall decoration. Rain had drummed the roof while Coltrane's sax sang through cheap speakers.

Leilani exhaled. "I played it tonight too. Same scratches. Same skip."

Amara closed her eyes, pictured Leilani alone in their old apartment. Her apartment now. Curtains half-drawn, lamp casting long shadows. Leilani would sit on the rug with her knees up, listening the way she used to when Amara came home late as usual, exhausted and full to bursting with orbit and exploration.

"You always said the skip added character," Amara said.

"It does." Leilani's mouth quirked, not quite a smile. "Just like us."

The sax dipped into a phrase Amara knew by heart. She closed her eyes for a second. We used to finish each other's sentences listening to Coltrane. Now we're finishing paperwork.

Kelly's solo began, chords all alone and blue.

"Remember that night? We argued about your move," Leilani mused. "You wanted space. I wanted my garden in the summer sun. We both got what we wanted."

"I remember." Amara opened her eyes. "I took the promotion. You planted tomatoes on the balcony."

"They died." Leilani laughed once, short and dry. "Everything died a little last year."

Amara watched the curve of Earth brighten at the edge as dawn crept forward. The relay dish outside tracked its arc, bouncing signals for people who needed weather forecasts and stock ticks. Reliable. Clinical. Distant.

"Why call now?" Amara asked.

"Because tomorrow it's all over." Leilani leaned closer to the camera. Her voice cracked on the next word, just enough to betray her. "I didn't want the last thing between us to be a timestamp on some form."

Amara's throat tightened. She could feel the question rising before she spoke it. "Did you ever think about coming with me?"

Leilani looked away for a second, then back. "Every day. But it would have been a lie. I'm tired of lying to myself."

The admission hung there, hollow, waiting to resolve.

Leilani swallowed. "Turn it up. Let me hear the rest."

Amara thumbed the volume up. Her quarters filled with the warm sax, searching and steady. It streamed over the tight-beam, clear and raw, the microscopic scan of the vinyl's grooves capturing every imperfection — scratches, skips, the warmth of analog etched forever into digital permanence.

The notes hung in the air, suspended over a single pedal tone, floating as if they had no need to ever land.

They listened. Amara traced a seam on the console with her finger. Leilani had her eyes closed. The tenor saxophone breathed long phrases, tender and unhurried, each lingering before the next rose to meet it.

When the final note drifted away, Leilani spoke first. Her voice was quieter now. "It still sounds the same."

"Some things hold," Amara said. The words tasted flat.

Leilani nodded once. "For a while."

"Entropy's slow in orbit." Amara paused. "But it gets everything in the end."

Leilani's laugh was softer this time, almost broken. "We were good at fighting it. For a while."

"That's the best anyone can ever do," Amara said.

Leilani cocked her head, then smiled a little.

The signal wavered from solar interference, routine. Amara adjusted the gain without thinking.

"I should sign off," Leilani said. "I've got paperwork waiting."

"Yeah." Amara swallowed. "Leilani?"

"I'm here."

"Keep the original. Play it when the silence gets too loud."

Leilani touched the screen with her fingertips. "You keep listening. Remind yourself music still exists."

The feed dropped to static, then silence.

Amara sat back. The player clicked and looped to the beginning. Naima started again.

Outside, the station's relay kept turning and sent clean signals across the void. Inside, the music played all night, unresolved.