The Sun was a golden stitch in the black tapestry of the void, just one needlepoint among thousands visible through the Calypso’s observation deck window. It made an extra zag in the sawtooth constellation of Cassiopeia, even though the ship had left Proxima b a century ago. The sun should be blinding by now, the biggest thing in the sky, but Jacklyn still needed the ship’s astronautical charts to tell which star it was. Which star was home.
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