stratt packs all of grace’s prized possessions with him, like offerings for the dead. like the treasures of a pharaoh, to be used in the afterlife. of course she doesn’t do it herself with her own hands — carl, whose title had devolved somewhat into “grace’s babysitter” over the course of the building of hail mary, stands watch as the techs go through grace’s room and fold away his collection of soft stupid science pun t-shirts, woolen cardigans. he makes sure the posters clearly drawn by children’s unsteady hands make it into the bag. whatever looked well-loved and not the standard miscellany of the base’s spartan rooms is packed away, never to return home.
the only thing stratt places in grace’s luggage herself is the little hackey-sack earth. nobody questions her. nobody notices. she holds it tight in her palm before she lets it go, feeling the textured surface. belief has never felt so much like grief.
(years later, her fingers run over the grooves of an eridian-made figure of grace, as sunbeams fall dappled to the ground. her lips twitch upwards. a memento of grace, who none of them will ever see again, in her hands. a memento of earth, that he will never see again, in his hands.)
