The Knock in the Wall
The sun slipped behind the Earth, and the long window went dark. Sam pressed one palm to the cold glass. The chill came through like a small wind. Bram floated up beside them, his striped face soft in the night lights. The station hummed its low hum. Then, somewhere inside the wall, something went knock. Knock. Knock. Sam held still and listened with their whole body. Bram laid a wide paw flat on the wall. "Listen — it's knocking again, Bram," Sam said.
They pushed off together and floated down the corridor, hand over handhold. The knocking went ahead of them, patient and slow. Sam touched the wall as they travelled. Here it was warm as a pocket. Here it was cold as a spoon. The cold part made the back of Sam's hand prickle. Bram drifted close, and his fur was warm against Sam's elbow. The knocking turned the corner, so Sam turned the corner too.
The corridor opened into the round room with the big window. Earth turned below, dark blue, with one curl of white storm. The knocking was louder here. It came from a silver pipe that ran along the ceiling like a long thin arm. Sam floated up and laid both hands on it. One end was cold. The middle was cool. The far end was warm, and growing warmer while Sam held on. Bram watched, quiet.
Something was moving inside the pipe. Sam could feel it bump along, knock by knock, coming closer. Bram pressed his ear to the metal and his whiskers twitched. "Water," Sam whispered. Warm water, going all the way round the station, coming back to the cold side. Each knock was a little piece of ice letting go. Sam followed the warmth with their hands, slow, the way you follow a story.
Hand over hand along the pipe, Sam went where the warm was going. The cold wall had grown feathers of frost, pale and fine as fern. Sam breathed on one and it went soft. "Listen — it's knocking again, Bram," Sam said, and the pipe knocked twice, as if it had heard. Bram smiled his wide smile. The frost feathers began to shine wet at their tips.
Warmth spread out from the pipe into the wall. The frost let go and became beads, round and clear, standing on the metal. One bead lifted off and floated. Then another. Sam held still so the air would stay still. Soon small drops drifted everywhere, turning slowly, each one holding a bent little picture of the window. Bram did not move a whisker. The room was warm as a blanket now.
Sam fetched a cup from the strap by the door and swept it through the air. One drop went in. Then three. Then a wobbling handful, joining and joining into one shivering ball. Sam carried the cup to the window, where Earth was turning. The water bulged and trembled and would not be still. Sam waited. Bram waited beside them, broad and warm, breathing slowly.
Little by little the water stopped shaking. It pulled itself round, the way water likes to be. It hung in the mouth of the cup, smooth, holding the blue of Earth inside it. The pipe above them gave one last small knock, and then went quiet. Sam said it anyway, soft as a yawn. "Listen — it's knocking again, Bram." But the wall was warm all over now, from one end to the other.
Sam hooked the cup beside their sleeping bag and climbed in. Bram floated near, a warm striped shape in the dim. The lights went low. Below the window, Earth turned, and a thin line of morning waited at its edge. In the cup, the little ball of water settled. It did not wobble. It did not drift. It lay there, round and still, holding the blue, while Sam closed their eyes.
