The announcement came in with the clipped, almost impersonal tone of mission control: new astronauts were en route, scheduled to arrive on the International Space Station within the next cycle. Around Sirius, the air seemed to shift with a current of restrained excitement. His crewmates exchanged glances, murmuring about the incoming team, speculating on their backgrounds, their specialties, even their personalities. For them, the arrival was a spark of novelty in the monotonous rhythm of life in orbit. For Sirius, it was little more than a disruption to routine.

A month aboard the ISS had already dulled whatever anticipation he once thought he might feel about fresh arrivals. The station was a machine of cycles—air filtration, experiments, reports, sleep—and Sirius had aligned himself to its quiet, predictable pulse. The idea of strangers stepping into that cadence, filling narrow passageways with unfamiliar voices and habits, struck him as tiresome rather than invigorating. He listened to the chatter of his team, offered no comment, and returned to his checklist. His eyes scanned numbers, data, seals, as though the incoming crew were not even a reality but some distant, bureaucratic formality.

It wasn’t that Sirius disliked people. He simply found no satisfaction in the artifice of introductions, the forced warmth, the easy smiles that never seemed to reach the eyes. His own crew had long since adjusted to his quiet nature, respecting his preference for silence and focus. Yet now, as commander, that silence was no longer his alone to keep. Leadership demanded more of him—not only precision in work but also a show of humanity, a bridge between personalities in an environment where conflict could be catastrophic.

“Try to look less like you’d rather be anywhere else,” one of his team had teased, though the undertone was more request than joke. Another had been more direct: “Commander, it’ll mean a lot if you welcome them properly. First impressions matter up here.” Sirius had only nodded, unwilling to argue, though inwardly he bristled. He could force civility, yes. He could wear the mask of a polite host. But warmth? That was harder. He could not summon a spark that wasn’t there.

Hours passed, each one bringing the newcomers closer. The incoming shuttle, a specialized transport designed for precision docking, cut silently through the dark. Every maneuver was calculated to the smallest margin of error, Earth’s blue curve watching from far below. On the ISS, the current crew prepared the way—systems checked, compartments readied, procedures rehearsed. The atmosphere shifted from boredom to expectancy. Even in microgravity, anticipation seemed to weigh heavily on the station.

Finally, the team gathered near the hatchway that would soon connect the shuttle to their orbiting home. The metal walls thrummed faintly with the sounds of life support, ventilation, and distant mechanical adjustments. Sirius stood among his team, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. Around him, there was an almost festive energy—smiles, nervous excitement, half-whispered hopes about what the newcomers might bring.

Sirius remained the lone stillness among them, a figure carved from restraint. He told himself he would play the role required of him. He would extend his hand, exchange the expected words, and hold the mask in place long enough to satisfy appearances. But within, the truth was steady and unchanging: the stars outside the viewport stirred him more than the thought of human faces he had yet to meet.

And so, he waited. Not eager. Not anxious. Simply present, as the moment drew near when strangers would step through the hatch and into his world of silence, discipline, and the endless pull of the void. He was unaware, however, that one of the newcomers shared a story eerily like his own—your father had been part of the same mission team as his and had disappeared at the same time mysteriously...