When I was little I was afraid of the dark. My grandfather tried to reassure me that the dark isn’t real. It’s just the absence of light.

“Everything is still there, tokki. When the light returns you will see. Do not be afraid.”

I try to tell myself that silence works the same way. It’s just the absence of noise. It can’t do any real harm.

But the longer I wait for a response from ground control, the more unnerving the silence becomes.

“Houston, this is Proximity IV, over…”

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There’s nothing. Not even a static crackle.

We were in the middle of a procedures check for my reentry to Earth’s atmosphere, which is scheduled to begin in twelve hours.

Review the reentry check. Make my last observations of various inventory. Record it in the log. Sleep for the next eight hours.

When the radio suddenly went dark.

No, that’s not exactly true. I had heard something, right before it cut off, that made my blood run cold.

A scream.

“Houston. Proximity IV. Do you copy?”

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The sounds around me are familiar, but not comforting. Gentle groans and creaks from the ship I’ve been stuck in for nearly two weeks. Reminding me I was inside what is essentially a metal tube, and everyone I know and love is too far away to reach.

I’ve completed many similar missions. It’s a relatively short solo trip to fix a couple of the major satellites orbiting Earth and its moon. My parents are so proud to tell everyone their kid is an astronaut. I tell everyone I’m just a fancy repairman.

I move from the comms deck to the small round window. Looking down on Earth I see the vast Pacific Ocean. It’s a little dizzying to think about the miles between me and it, and then again to consider how far down the ground is from the surface of the water.

I know I can’t see what the problem is from here, but it’s second nature I guess, to start relying on other senses when one goes away.

I’m about to try the radio again when I do see something. Just on the horizon there’s a strange cloud, or maybe smoke. Sometimes we can see wild fires up here, but this was not the hazey mass of a forest fire, this was…rounded?

I keep an eye on it. As California crests the horizon the tops of a couple more pop up. When I finally orbit over the west coast I see it clearly for what it is.

A mushroom cloud. Dozens of them.

“Mygod”

I rush back to the radio, “Houston. Proximity IV, please, please respond.”

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I try another channel.

“Huntsville. This is Proximity IV. Are you there? Tell me what happened. Are you ok?”

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“Huntsville, over…”

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I switch back to Houston.

“Wes! Charlie! Kyra!…Anyone. Tell me this isn’t real…”

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Outside the window the clouds are spreading, covering most of the land. My erratic heartbeat is drumming in my ears. I expect the doc to get on the comms and tell me to calm down. That my vitals are out of norm.

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“This can’t be real”

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The Atlantic Ocean begins to fill my view, and I switch to Munich.

“Mu-Munich. This is Proximity IV. Do you copy?”

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I know they’re probably just as panicked as I am, but I need to hear another human voice.

“Munich. Proximity IV–“

But my voice catches and I cannnot speak. The mushroom clouds are here too. Across Europe, and the Middle East.

Why? Why would anyone do this? This is insane.

With shakey hands I try my last hope.

“Moscow. This is Proximity IV. Is anyone there?”

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I turn the radio off and watch the nuclear fumes swallow the Earth.

My own breath has never sounded so foreign. In less than 10 hours my ship will automatically begin its reentry descent. I’m scheduled to land at SLF at 11am Friday. There is an abort code I could activate in case of emergency, but without any other ships coming to resupply or refuel me, I’m not sure how long I’ll last up here.

Alone.

Silence isn’t just the absence of noise. It’s the absence of life.