Solstice of a Mind

A science fiction short story.

We settle into the cabin, a small wooden oasis amidst towering pines and quiet waters. It's as though no time has passed. The sun peeks through the treetops, golden light flickering over the surface of the lake, and we're home.

The first few days blur into simple routines. Mornings are spent drinking coffee on the porch, watching the mist lift from the water. I watch the sun, low on the horizon, spilling over the trees like honey, bringing warmth after the cold of space. My partner and I spend hours hiking through the forest, our boots crunching on the soft, fragrant pine needles, or floating lazily on the lake's surface in our old rowboat. Everything feels familiar, but there's a stillness, a softness that lingers, and it reminds me of how space makes everything soundless.

The sun, though. Its rays seem stronger than I remember. At first, I chalk it up to being away for so long. Perhaps I've forgotten the heat, the intensity. But as days pass, it feels different. I can sense its presence more deeply. The light is brighter, sometimes blinding, and even when I close my eyes, I feel it burning behind my eyelids. My skin tingles under it, as though the air itself has become electric.

At night, when the sun finally dips beneath the horizon, the sky isn't as dark as it should be. There's a faint glow to everything like the last remnants of daylight refuse to let go. I mention this to my partner, but they just laugh it off - "You're just not used to being home yet," they say. But I know something is off.

The heat lingers through the night, making sleep restless. I dream of the sun every time I close my eyes. Dreams where it expands, swallowing the sky, burning forests and lakes until everything is scorched. In my dreams, I try to run, but the light follows me, relentless, and I wake up in a sweat, my heart pounding.

One afternoon, as we walk along the lake, I notice how strange the light falls on their face. The sun is high, but their shadow is in the wrong place, stretched long and thin as if it's late evening. I blink and it's gone, but a feeling of unease settles deep in my chest.

The days pass, but something feels trapped in the air. It's not just the sun. The lake water feels warmer than it should, almost uncomfortably so, like it's being heated from below. The wind feels wrong. Too hot, too still, as though it's coming from an oven. I start to feel like we're not alone in the woods, as though something is watching us, the air heavy with its gaze. My partner feels it too. I see them glancing at the sky more often, squinting into the light, their face drawn tight with the same tension I feel.

Then one morning, I wake to the sound of birds, their calls piercing through the window, shrill and unnatural. But when I open the curtains, the sun isn't there. The sky is dark, but not the comforting kind of dark. It's oppressive, the kind that makes your stomach drop. I step outside, and the ground beneath me feels soft like it's not quite real. The trees look like shadows of themselves, flickering as if caught between worlds.

"Are we awake?" I ask them one night as we sit by the fire. They look at me, their face illuminated by the dancing flames. "Of course, we are," they say, though their voice sounds distant, as if carried by the wind from far away.

That night, the sun doesn't set at all. It hangs low in the sky, burning orange-red, filling the cabin with a searing light that won't fade. We close the curtains, but it seeps through, bleeding into every corner. I can't sleep. I keep hearing something—like the hum of the shuttle engines far off in the distance.

Suddenly, it hits me like a punch to the chest. This isn't real. We're not in the cabin. I'm still on the shuttle. My heart races as I remember where we are, what we've been doing for the last few years - hurtling towards the sun. We've been heading straight for it. I remember the last moments before we entered cryosleep, the mission parameters, the impossibility of returning.

I try to wake up, to snap out of the dream, but I can't. The cabin starts to warp, the walls bending in on themselves. My partner disappears before my eyes, the air around them shimmering and evaporating. The ground beneath me trembles, and I'm falling, falling through layers of sunlight and shadow. I close my eyes, desperate to hold onto the cabin, the lake, anything real.

Then, with a gasp, I wake up.

The cabin is gone. The forest, the lake, the sun-dappled trees - gone. All I see is the cold metal walls of the shuttle and the instruments blinking in front of me. Outside, through the viewport, the sun looms larger than I've ever seen it, a monstrous ball of fire, growing closer with each passing second.

There's nothing I can do.

I reach out, but my limbs feel heavy and useless. We're on a course set long ago, and now there's no turning back. The heat begins to seep in through the hull, the light pouring through the windows like liquid fire. I can't escape it. The hum of the engines fades, replaced by the growing roar of the star outside.

And yet, as the shuttle hurtles toward its inevitable end, I find my mind drifting back to the cabin. I close my eyes, imagining the cool breeze on my face, the scent of the pines, and the soft glow of sunlight over the lake. I hold onto that image, let it fill me, and for a moment, I'm there again, at peace, even as the light consumes us all.