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Stratt stared at the locked trailer door. No one had opened it in nearly 3 days. The stairs were still several meters to the left of the door. A leftover consequence of the Astrophage explosion that had killed the Hail Mary’s primary and secondary scientists.
How strange.
Everything else had been fixed or patched to the best of their abilities since then. And yet this was one of the only things that had been left untouched. Instead of shifting the trailer back into its original location, a heavy duty step stool had been brought in for this specific occasion. A temporary fix for a more permanent problem. Nothing she really needed to worry about though. It wasn’t like it was going to matter after the next few days.
So instead, she takes in a deeper than normal breath and slots the key into the lock on the door. It unlocks with ease. A satisfying click being the only tell of the door’s ability to now open. Stratt turns the handle as she steps up onto the stool.
Inside is darker than usual. Which made sense since the blinds were drawn. But that wasn’t the only reason. The light that used to reside here was now hidden away somewhere underground, awaiting to be shot into space. She looks around at the space Dr. Grace had lived in for weeks. It was chaotic and messy. Nearly the exact opposite of what her own trailer parallel to this one. There were whiteboards covered in equations, papers scattered around, the bed was still unmade, children’s art hung carefully over the desk that had been shoved into the corner.
The space was just so utterly, him. There was absolutely no question as to whose space this was, had been. If she closed her eyes she could faintly hear Grace rambling on about something or other that had to do with Astrophage. The barest waft of hours old cold coffee hung in the air like a ghost, refusing to leave or move on. Just like him. It nearly made a bitter smile tug at her lips but she caught it and squashed it down. There wasn’t any time for her to get emotional about things. Especially something as small and insignificant as this.
Finally, Stratt moved further into the trailer, closing the door behind her. First, she opened the blinds. She stared out the window for a quiet moment. The view wasn’t any special, just the sight of her own trailer across the way. Briefly she wondered how long he’d sit here and stare out of the same window. She shook the thought out of her mind and moved on to the actual task she’d come here to complete.
She unfolded the packing cube, though it was shaped more like a rectangle, and set it on the unmade bed. She then opened up the free standing wardrobe and started to pull out the articles of clothing that had been stored there. A bright red shirt with a chemistry pun on it. Cracked white printing a clear sign of love and care. She folded it and placed it gently into the soft-sided storage bin. Next came a black shirt with another pun, ‘I had potential’, scrawled across the front with a curved line and a circle at the bottom. She folded and packed that one next to the first.
And so on she went. Going through and packing all that Grace had brought with him while he worked on Project Hail Mary. She didn’t realize just how little he’d brought with him in the first place. A few more shirts, some PHM branded clothing items, several beanies in muted colors, an extra pair of glasses in a beat up looking hardcase, maybe two weeks' worth of underthings, two pairs of jeans, his one pair of converse, three jumpers, his fox cardigan, and his yellow rain jacket. All of which fit into the single packing bin that the Hail Mary’s crew members were allotted. There was even some space left over.
Stratt looked around the room again to see if there were any other personal belongings that could fit into the remaining leftover space. While scanning, her eyes landed on the children’s art hung on the wall. She stands in front of the desk, just looking. She can tell that all of the art came from his own students. Personal messages and colorful pictures scrawled over slightly wrinkled pages. They were all tacked up with regular office tape. Some of the tape was obviously less sticky than others, resulting in some of the pages fluttering to the ground before Stratt could get to them.
She sighs softly and bends down to pick up the rouge pictures. A single one managed to slip further beneath the desk than the others, making it so that she had to physically get on her hands and knees to retrieve it. By doing exactly that, Stratt found something that she hadn’t seen on either of her looks around the trailer.
There, shoved into the furthest corner and partially hidden behind a wastebin chock full of crumpled papers, was a worn old shoe box. Tape of varying kinds held it together, as if it had been something that had been kept in the back of the closet for years. Quietly moving from one closet to another. Always there but never taken out. At least until she’d found it.
She extracts it from its hiding place. Placing it on the desk next to the neatly organized stack of children’s artwork and notes, she takes a look inside. What she finds are pictures, letters, mementos, all from a life before Project Hail Mary. Dr. Ryland Grace’s life. All there in a worn and repaired shoe box from the ‘80s. Stratt takes out each item with a sort of reverence that she hasn’t had in years. Not since she stopped practicing her parents' religion. She looks at all of the photos; ones with just Grace, ones of Grace and another boy that looked identical (the inscription on the back says Ryland and Colt Summer ‘81 in neat cursive print), ones with Grace and a woman whom she assumes is (or at least was) his mother, ones with the whole family of four all smiling at the camera without a care. Christmases, birthdays, Fourth of Julys, lazy Sunday afternoons, all recorded and placed lovingly in this box that was more tape than cardboard. Some of the photos look damaged but overall, still incredibly well preserved and intact.
It takes a while, far longer than it should have but she doesn’t care, but soon she’s surrounded by the past relics of Grace’s childhood and life up until that point. Quietly, she sorts through them before placing them into the sturdy plastic sleeves of an impersonal photo album that someone had bought just in case Dr. Grace had photos among his personal items. There wasn’t enough space for them all so she tucked the rest into an envelope. The artwork was gently placed into a newly emptied binder; one that had definitely been used as teacher prep at one point.
Soon everything was packed away. The only sound being that of the zipper as Stratt closed the personal item storage. She thought for a moment then remembered something important. Stratt pulled out the Earth hack sack that she’d taken from Grace’s classroom all those many months, now years, ago. It was the last thing to be packed, tucked into a corner between his t-shirts and his fox cardigan. With that, everything was officially packed up and would most likely not be opened again until a minimum of 16 years later.
She took a breath and looked around once more. After another few days, this place will be gutted and cleaned. Reset back to what it had been before. There wasn’t anything left over from Grace’s personal items, everything had been packed away. With the single exception of the shoe box that still sat on Grace’s desk. There wasn’t anywhere to put it. It was far too big to pack with the rest of the things she’d found. So it was left on the desk, fated to be thrown away during the inevitable clean out that was to happen. The last piece of Dr. Ryland Grace that was going to be left on Earth, only to be thrown away without a second thought. Whoever was cleaning would never know just how many memories it had once held. Of the sentimentality that it contained for a person that was no longer there.
Stratt turns and makes her way back to the door. Her hand hesitated on the handle. After a moment she turns back and stares at the now empty room. Whiteboards had been wiped clean, papers organized, bed made, as if it was waiting for the next person to move in. Even though there was a good chance that no one else would use it again. Huh, she didn’t even realize that she’d cleaned up as well as packed.
Her throat tightened. She tried to breathe through it and it helped slightly. It’s silent. So quiet, so unlike him. It was almost like she was standing in a crypt instead of a mobile trailer. Silent as a grave.
She opened her mouth and broke the silence with a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
And then it was quiet once more until the sound of the door opening and the lock turning came into existence. But soon even those settled. The room now felt like it was mourning the loss of a good friend. Something that Stratt also now carried in her chest.