Almost two weeks had passed since the signal disruption.
Nothing else happened.
The ship returned to its usual rhythm.
Breakfast.
Shifts.
Technical inspections.
Evening reports to Earth.
Even the conversations became like the ones from the start of the flight.
Only the laughter sounded shorter.
That week Tomas started keeping watch at night.
Not because it was necessary.
He decided it himself.
While the crew slept, the ship changed.
By day it was full of voices, footsteps, opening bulkheads.
At night only the hum of the ventilation remained, and occasionally some automatic system would beep, reporting a routine check.
Tomas liked that sound.
It reminded him that the ship didn’t sleep.
On the second night of his watch, he met Rojus.
He was standing by the observation dome.
Not sitting.
Just standing.
“Can’t sleep?” Tomas asked.
“I woke up.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
They were both silent for a while.
Ahead of them, the stars drifted slowly by.
They weren’t moving.
They only seemed to.
“Strange thing,” Rojus said quietly.
“What?”
“The longer I look at them, the less I believe they’re the ones moving.”
Tomas smiled.
“That’s relative.”
“Maybe.”
Rojus stood a while longer.
Then left.
Tomas stayed alone.
And didn’t notice when he started thinking not about Rojus.
But about himself.
In the morning he couldn’t find his journal.
He looked in his cabin.
In the medical bay.
In the mess hall.
He finally found it in the observation dome.
On the windowsill.
He didn’t remember leaving it there.
He opened it.
On the last page was yesterday’s entry.
The handwriting was his.
The ink too.
Only he didn’t remember writing one particular sentence.
Don’t trust what you remember in the morning.
Tomas stared at those words for a long time.
Tried to remember.
Nothing.
That same day, at lunch, the mechanic asked:
“Who was on watch after you last night?”
“No one.”
“Strange.”
“Why?”
“I saw someone at the control station.”
“When?”
“Around four.”
“At four that was me.”
The mechanic shook his head.
“No.”
“You were asleep by then.”
Tomas was about to object.
But stopped.
He truly didn’t remember when he’d gone to sleep.
He was only certain it had happened after his watch.
Certain.
Almost certain.
That evening he decided not to tell anyone else about the journal.
Not because he was afraid.
Because he was a psychologist.
He knew how easily a person searching for an explanation begins to collect only the facts that confirm their hunch.
There could be a very simple explanation.
Fatigue.
Distraction.
Automatic actions.
A person often doesn’t remember where they put things.
A person sometimes doesn’t remember what they themselves wrote.
That was normal.
At least, that’s what he thought.
And yet that night, before turning off the light, Tomas locked his cabin door for the first time.
In the morning it was unlocked.