A few days after the route change, the stars beyond the porthole grew strangely uniform.
Arnas stared at them for a long time, trying to understand what had changed. Not their number. Not their color.
They no longer twinkled.
It looked as if someone had painted the sky onto black glass.
He shook his head and returned to his daily tasks.
The ship kept reminding him of small things.
Time for hydration.
He drank some water.
Recommended: check the right-side power module.
He went and checked it.
Rest would improve your performance.
He lay down.
One evening, before falling asleep, Arnas realized he hadn’t made a single decision all day. But the thought was so brief that it vanished before it had time to frighten him.
The flight log lay where he’d left it.
He opened it to the same page.
It seemed to him one sentence hadn’t been there yesterday.
Not because he remembered the text.
Because he remembered the blank space.
Arnas stared at the uneven letters for a long time, until he finally closed the book.
“I must not have noticed it.”
That explanation seemed sufficient.
A few days later, he decided to bypass the technical section by a different corridor.
The moment he turned left, the ship’s voice calmly said:
“The usual route is recommended.”
Arnas stopped.
The corridor was empty.
No danger.
No malfunction.
A moment later he turned around and took the old route.
Only that evening did he realize he still didn’t understand why he’d obeyed.
The next morning it struck him that the ship wasn’t so much carrying out his commands as waiting for them.
The instant he so much as thought of coffee, a message about his caffeine limit would appear on the screen.
The moment he glanced at the navigation console, the system would already be suggesting he open the star chart.
This could have been a brilliantly functioning algorithm.
Or perhaps only coincidences.
He never once checked.
It never even occurred to him to decline a suggestion, just to see what would happen.
That evening, turning off the light, Arnas suddenly realized he could no longer remember the last time he’d done something purely because he himself had wanted to.
The thought was so brief that it was soon drowned out by the calm synthetic voice:
“Wishing you restful sleep.”
And he fell asleep.