It was cold and lonely. Empty. Only the memories remained, though most of them had been washed well. And mended.

Her bare feet paced the corrugated floor silently. She approached. Then held back.

It was wrong. She couldn’t take that one. It still smelled of him. Of his end. Bits of him were in the fabric now. Now more than ever before.

She drifted left and settled into the other chair. It was better here. As if she were to fly with him instead of for him.

She waited, knees drawn up to her chin, contemplating the myriad raindrops eking out their meager existence on the outer hull of the ship. They would never live again.

Is their existence worthwhile? Do they accomplish some goal?

She blinked. Yes, of course they do. Everything would be dead without them.

And so it was.

Then the captain walked in. He was in brief good humor, but once his boot hit the deck, his demeanor changed. His eyes passed over her, and she felt his pain. However, he strode strongly and without hesitation to the pilot's chair and planted his bum in it.

It pained him as it had her. She could almost hear the chair whimper for its former master. But to his credit, he remained, ever ready to do his job. To keep flying.

"So," he said, beginning to prep the ship, "You gonna ride shotgun with me, help me fly?"

"That's the plan." She said simply.