Home sweet home, kind of

 Chapter 4 — A Place of Her Own

The door hinges gave a tired groan as Mara pushed the door inward, stepping into her new home. Afternoon light slanted through the missing portion of the wall, casting long golden stripes across the small, repurposed living space. It was… humble, rough around the edges, but it was four walls, a roof, and more safety than she’d had since setting foot back on Earth.

Her eyes landed immediately on the table in the centre of the room.

Just as Sheriff Waites had promised, her shotgun rested there, cleaned and lightly oiled. Beside it sat her pack—stuffed full of scavenged supplies exactly the way she’d left it before her capture. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. They didn’t steal anything. They actually took care of it.

But what really caught her attention was the wicker basket beside the pack.

She approached slowly, almost reverently. Inside were several folded outfits—sturdy pants, worn but well-cared-for shirts, a patched coat, thick socks. Everything was clean, smelling faintly of old laundry detergent and sun.

Then there was a box, neatly arranged: half a dozen fresh vegetables, a couple of apples, and several cans whose labels were faded but legible. On top rested a small cardboard container of shotgun shells, tied with string.

And nestled against that was a bundle of washing supplies—soap, a rough sponge, a small towel.

Pinned to the towel was a handwritten note:

“Courtesy of Joy Waites.”

Mara blinked, touched. She lifted the note gently, and something small and circular slid out from beneath it—a fabric mission patch, crisp despite the years.

Her heart stopped for a moment.

Atlantica-7.

Her first mission beyond Earth’s orbit.

Her first time staring down at the blue marble she never thought she’d lose.

She brushed her thumb across the patch, feeling a lump form in her throat.

Someone cared enough to find this. Someone who wanted me to feel… at home.

She swallowed hard, forcing a smile that trembled at the edges.

“Thank you, Joy,” she whispered to the empty room.

Setting the patch carefully on the bedside shelf like a sacred relic, she turned back to the basket. Her stomach growled—loudly, embarrassingly. She laughed softly at herself. “Alright, alright, I hear you.”

She took a can of beans, a potato, and a small packet of seasoning and carried them to the tiny, makeshift stove against the wall. The thing was little more than a metal drum with a pipe welded onto it, but there was firewood piled beside it and a box of matches on top.

It took only a few minutes to coax a flame to life. She sliced the potato, dumped the beans into a pot, added water and seasoning, then set everything to warm.

As it simmered, filling the tiny house with a smell so warm and comforting it made her chest ache, she sat down on the rickety chair beside the table.

Her fingers played idly over the butt of her returned shotgun.

Maybe… maybe this place isn’t so bad. Maybe these people aren’t so bad.

She closed her eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire.

Tomorrow she’d meet the Sheriff at the gate.

Tomorrow she’d help them with the lander.

Tomorrow she’d find out what this settlement truly needed from her.

But tonight?

Tonight she had food, warmth, a roof, and—strangest of all—hope.