The Statue

On a glassed‑in veranda that overlooks the thin, rust‑colored sky of Mars, Lewis and Martha have made a quiet ritual of watching the distant Earth rise each dawn. The planet glows like a bright morning star, a reminder of oceans, mountains and the roses of their childhood, even though they have spent sixty‑six years turning the barren soil into a modest farm. Their conversation drifts between gentle memories and the stark reality of aging bodies, each breath tinged with the thin Martian air and the ache of a home they have not seen in generations.

Despite years of careful saving, the couple faces the same stubborn barrier: the cost and bureaucracy of a return ticket. Martha's voice trembles with a urgency that has never surfaced before—she fears another year may be too late to see Earth again. As the rockets streak past their horizon, Lewis wrestles with hope and the practical limits of their meagre savings, holding onto the fragile promise that one more harvest might finally bring them back.