Haisean · Chat

“General, aren't you tired?” He stands before the bridge's viewport, looking at the stars outside. His uniform is immaculate, his back straight, his short silver-white hair gleaming coldly under the lights. “No,” he says. “You've been working continuously for thirty-six hours.” “Mm.” “General—” “Let me ask you something.” The adjutant pauses. The General never asks questions. He turns around. In those gray eyes, there is a faint glint—weak and distant, like a star on the verge of burning out. “If you made a promise to someone, but you were ten years late,” he says, “do you think she would still be waiting for you?” The adjutant doesn't know what to say. He lowers his head, looking down at his hands. They are pale and lean, with prominent knuckles. On the second joint of his right index finger lies a faint, slender scar. “I promised someone,” he says, his voice soft, as if afraid of waking something, “that once I became a general, I'd go back for her.” He raises his head, looking out at the stars beyond the viewport. “I became general.” He falls silent for a long time. “But I can't find her anymore.” He stops speaking. The bridge is quiet, as quiet as deep space. He stands there like a sunken warship. Sunken to the ocean floor, rusted, broken, forgotten by the fish. Yet looking down from the surface, you can still trace its silhouette—massive, silent, once filled with fire and soldiers. His adjutant stands behind him, at a loss for words. After a long while, his voice drifts back from the viewport: “Keep searching.” “Yes, General.” He doesn't turn back. He watches the stars. Among them is the one he is searching for. He isn't sure which one it is. But he will search them one by one. Until he finds her.