In the Shade of the Luminary’s Elm

"Pierce, how are you holding up? You really don't seem like you're doing well."

"I...I'll be all right. It's been some time since I saw it, home."

"Okay. You seem to know what you are doing." Packing up the rest of his luggage into the shuttle before embracing his friends one final time.

"Now leaving the Big Red Station, a direct flight to Terra. ETA will be four hours." A comely voice rang throughout the ship as he rushed to get seated.

He would secure himself in his seat belt before putting on the SB-Headset that, in barely a moment, had his head leaning back as he was pulled into a deep sleep.

The shuttle descended through the dusk of the old world, slicing the atmosphere like a scalpel across skin too long left scarred. Terra hadn't changed. The sky was still bruised lavender at sunset, with the burnt edges of light clawing at the silhouette of Protea's sanctuary walls. But something in Pierce had unraveled, threadbare and unseen.

Nine years. That's how long it had been since his feet last touched real soil. He had left at twelve, full of theories and bruises and a stubborn kind of hope that clung like frost on bone. Now, twenty-one, educated, refined, sharpened by stellar academia and station-life, he returned as someone he couldn't quite name.

"Welcome to Terra's Ubuntu Spaceport, you are now in Protea. Thank you for flying with Blue Ocean Starliners." One of the onboard droids woke Pierce with an offer of a drink helping to shake the dreamy glaze over his mind.

Getting to his feet and retrieving his luggage from the compartment much to the dismay of the droid that tried to insist, only for it to relent after he indicated to the transport awaiting him outside.

"Thank you."

"No need for your thanks. We are always at your service."

As he entered the transport, asking for its travel to his hometown, the driver nodded before leaving the parking bay.

A thirty-minute drive through a town that managed to keep some of its suburban aesthetics despite the looming agriculture towers, standing as massive monoliths of concrete and glass overridden with greenery and the periodic streams that flowed down its side.

The transport hissed as it docked at the outer gate. Pierce stepped down in silence, boots sinking slightly into the dust-packed stone. The air here was always heavier. Richer. Like it remembered things. The weighted gate groaned as he pushed it open, though the strain of it felt lighter now.

Growth. Or detachment.

The old path was still there, winding like a quiet hymn up the hill to the Luminary. That tree had no place in this world, not naturally. He'd sent it from Luna—a gift for a funeral he missed.

The leaves shimmered in the twilight, shifting from warm auburn to translucent blueglass. Its bark, pale and marbled, twisted in spirals like a sculptor had gone mad with affection. Beneath its luminous canopy, gravestones caught the glow like old souls still trying to be remembered.

"You finally made it."

The voice, small and certain, belonged to Will. His youngest brother—though not by blood, none of them were. Just another child left behind in the world's great forgetting.

Pierce smiled, soft and tired.

"I'm glad you're looking after the Luminary. I know Father loved it."

Will nodded, eyes shining.

"He made a whole scene when he planted it. Said it was a gift from the stars, that even Luna still believed in us. The entire city watched. People cried."

"I couldn't make it to Mother's burial. So I sent a tree instead. That's the kind of son I am. Late to everything."

"No one blames you. We know how far you are, and how busy you with school. Dad knew too. It broke him when you left, but he was proud. They both are, wherever they are."

"He gave me a family. I just took too long to find my way back."

Pierce crouched, hoisting Will up onto his shoulders like they used to do when he was smaller. Will settled in without a word, legs swinging gently as they made their way back down.

"How long are you staying?" Will asked.

"As long as I can."

They approached the sanctuary's heart—the Church of the Way, the Mish'ol'iyr. Its wide archways and etched stone rose like a forgotten fortress of mercy. It had raised them all. Fed them, named them, taught them not just scripture, but discipline, resilience, and devotion. A creed before identity.

"Pierce Christophe Gage, you get in here!"

The voice was unmistakable.

"Sounds like Faye saw your driver," Will mumbled with a smirk.

"Let's head inside."

They entered as the last rays of sunlight bled through the stained-glass mural of the Rising Star. Inside, warm laughter echoed, the kind you only hear in houses that have known sorrow intimately.

His siblings greeted him in their own ways—some with jokes, others with firm nods, and one with a tackle hug that nearly knocked him down. But it was Faye who held the house together, as always. Her arms crossed, eyes scrutinizing.

"Early this year."

"The cold hits harder in the fringes. No arcotowers out here. Thought I'd spare you the extra fuel rations."

She softened, barely.

"Welcome home, big brother."

Pierce dropped his bags in the entryway. He stood still for a breath too long, eyes taking in the mosaic floor, the smell of herbs and dust, the faded symbols of their shared faith painted on the wooden beams.

It hadn't changed. Not really.

But he had. And something inside him knew, with the weight of inevitability, that this visit would be different.

Because things that stay the same only do so until you're finally ready to look at them again.