The outpost was a crossroads, a place where weary travelers rested before venturing into the vast unknown. They came with stories and left with parts, rations, and more often than not, expressions of gratitude. Old Jack, with a nod, would watch them leave, his presence as fixed as the stars above.

“Morning, Jack,” said a young pilot, her voice cutting through the quiet.

“Morning,” Jack grunted, eyes on the horizon. “Engine trouble?”

“Fuel line’s gone brittle,” she said, leaning against the railing next to him.

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He nodded, already picturing the repair. “I’ve got tubing. After breakfast.”

Her thanks was a smile, fleeting. But it was enough.

Jack moved through his day with purpose, his solitary routine a comfort. Yet, in the quiet moments, gazing out at the ever-changing flora, he allowed himself a small, tight smile. For the outpost didn’t just need him; he needed it—the stories, the faces, the brief connections.

As day faded, Jack, usually silent, reached out over the comms to the pilot he'd assisted. “Safe travels, kid."

Jack turned back to his console, the sounds of the outpost his constant companion. Alone, yet connected, he was the unsung anchor of this celestial waystation.