“Sometimes, it is not we who choose companionship, but companionship that chooses us.”

  Vorian never planned to stop.

  The distress signal had been weak, barely noticeable against the background noise of the cosmic void. A flickering pulse in the deep reaches of uncharted space. He had ignored many before, knowing well that interference, cosmic radiation, or the fading echoes of long-dead civilizations could trigger such beacons. And yet, something about this one nagged at him. It was persistent. Rhythmic. Alive.

  Against his better judgment, he altered course.

  The source of the signal was a derelict vessel drifting near the event horizon of a collapsed star. The ship's hull was scorched, its structure compromised, and the emergency beacon flickered like a dying ember. Life signs were minimal. A weak pulse of organic presence registered in his sensors.

  When he breached the airlock, he expected to find a survivor—perhaps a wounded explorer or a marooned traveler. Instead, something small and four-legged bolted past him, darting into the ship’s ruined corridors. Vorian caught only a glimpse of it. A creature. Not the kind of life he had expected to find.

  Vorian found the creature curled in a corner of what had once been the ship’s command center, surrounded by scattered belongings and the decomposed remnants of what he assumed had been its owner. The creature shivered, its thin frame betraying how long it had been without food or care.

  He considered leaving it. It was not his responsibility.

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  But as he turned away, something in its large eyes, eerily intelligent—made him pause. It did not whimper or beg, but it watched him with quiet patience, as though waiting for him to decide.

  A sigh escaped him. “Fine.”

  Scooping the creature up, he returned to his ship, sealing the airlock behind him.

  He did not know what to call it. The species was unfamiliar, though its body structure bore similarities to terrestrial canines. Its fur was short and bristled, its ears large and sensitive to sound. A prehensile tail curled around its small frame as it cautiously explored its new environment.

  Vorian had no desire to keep it.

  He rationed out a supply of nutrient paste, watching as the creature devoured it with desperate hunger. When he turned to leave, it followed. When he sat at the control panel, it curled up at his feet. When he slept, it nestled into the crook of the engine chamber, where the ship’s core emitted a steady warmth.

  Days passed. Then a week.

  Every attempt to leave the creature at a station or abandon it on a habitable world ended in failure. It would not stay. It would always find a way back to his ship before departure. The realization irritated him more than it should have.

  One evening, as he sat in the dim glow of the ship’s interface, the creature hopped onto the console and stared at him expectantly. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “You need a name.”

  The creature thumped its tail against the metal paneling.

  “Lumen,” he muttered finally. “You’re persistent. Like light that refuses to die out.”

  Lumen huffed, then curled up beside him.

  Vorian told himself that Lumen was temporary. That he would find a suitable planet to release him onto. That he would not grow accustomed to the sound of small padded feet following him through the corridors, or the way the ship felt less hollow with another presence aboard.

  Yet, as the days turned to weeks, he caught himself thinking about something he had long ignored. For all his solitude, for all his logic, there was something deeply familiar about the quiet companionship of a creature who asked for nothing but presence. It did not speak, did not press him with questions, did not expect anything beyond being there.

  Perhaps that was why he let Lumen stay.

  Perhaps that was why, for the first time in a long while, he did not feel entirely alone.