The Long Distance Runaround

 The signal delay from Proxima Centauri b was exactly 4.2 years. For Elias, a relay engineer stationed on the desolate outcrop of Station 4, it was both a lifeline and a prison sentence.

He didn't run for fitness. He ran because the biodome’s circular track was three hundred meters exactly, and if he ran fast enough, he could trick his vestibular system into believing he was still back on Earth, chasing a sunset in the foothills of the Rockies.

He checked his wrist-com. It was Tuesday, Earth-time. He pulled up the latest transmission from Sarah, sent from the bustling sprawl of New London.

"Hi, Eli," her voice crackled, distorted by the light-years of static. She looked older than she had in the last transmission. There were fine lines around her eyes that hadn't been there when he left. "I went to the gallery today. It’s raining. I keep thinking about how you said you’d bring back a piece of the red dust. I found a jar of crushed terracotta at the supply shop. It’s not yours, but it’s close."

Elias slowed his pace. The artificial gravity hummed beneath his feet—a rhythmic thrum-thrum that never quite mimicked the uneven crunch of mountain gravel.

He hit the 'Record' button. "I ran six miles today, Sarah. I’m starting to get faster. The air scrubbers are acting up again, so I sound a bit breathless. If you hear a wheeze, just know it’s the station, not me."

He stopped running, leaning against the cold, reinforced plexiglass. Outside, the Proxima star hung low and bloated, casting a sickly, bruised orange light over the jagged obsidian plains. He was waiting for a relief ship that was still two years away from even leaving Earth’s orbit. He was a man living in a vacuum, communicating with a ghost of a life he had left behind.

In his pocket, he touched a smooth, gray pebble he’d carried from his home planet. It was cold, unlike the synthetic warmth of the station.

"I’m coming back, Sarah," he whispered, knowing the message wouldn't reach her until their son was a teenager. "The runaround is almost over."

The cycle of the station lights dimmed, signaling the 'night' phase. Elias stood in the dark, watching the stars—those distant, mocking points of light that held the people he loved. He pressed 'Send.'

The transmission icon flickered—a tiny, digital spark traveling through the silent, indifferent void.

He took a breath, adjusted his shoes, and started to run again. The track was circular, the distance was infinite, but for as long as he kept moving, he was still heading home.