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Neat rows of coffee plants stretched into the distance, their dark leaves glistening in the daybreak illumination.

The ship’s landing thrusters engaged.

Sending a cloud of dust and loose grass into the air as they settled in a clearing near a dirt road lined with twisted baobab trees.

Scattered huts and homesteads dotted the horizon past the fields, their roofs still slick with morning dew.

In the distance, a handful of farmers emerged from their dwellings, baskets slung over their backs, their tools gleaming in the early light.

One of them, an older man with grizzled locs and a floppy-brimmed straw hat, raised a hand in greeting before turning back to his field.

Ki’Remi, unbuckling from the pilot’s seat, glanced at Issa.

‘Is this it?’ he asked, scanning the landscape.

Issa exhaled, her eyes locked onto a winding dirt path that led beyond the fields and toward a house at the base of a hill.

‘Tis the location my brother sent.’

She swallowed, shoulders braced in anticipation, fingers flexing as if she had to remind herself to breathe. ‘I’m so nervous. Why?’

Ki’Remi’s gaze lingered on her. ‘Tis anticipation. You’ve waited long for this moment.’

‘What else do you notice?’ she asked, buying time.

The Sableman’s eyes glimmered.

‘Love, hope, and the deep, aching need for family.’

She let out a soft scoff, though it lacked her usual bravado. ‘You see all that?’

His lips twitched. ‘I do. Relax,kidaya. You’ve got this.’

He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing over the back of her hand, grounding her, offering silent reassurance.

She gave him a brief, grateful look, squared her shoulders, and took the first step toward home.

With a hiss of depressurization, the gangway extended.

Outside, the air was crisp and thick with the scent of rain-soaked ground, sun-warmed grain, and mangoes ripening in a distant orchard.

Birds trilled from the trees, and the rustle of wind through tall grass whispered against the quiet of the countryside.

As The Alatyr’s rear deck hissed shut behind them, he took her hand as she led them to a modest yet sturdy farmhouse that rose from pale stone and warm red clay.

Its sloping roof was thatched in the heritage Dunia style, an old Earth tradition.

The windows were open, sheer white curtains billowing in the soft afternoon breeze.

A wraparound veranda framed the front, wooden posts worn smooth by time.

The steps led to a small vegetable garden teeming with lush greens and delicate sprouting herbs.

Issa inhaled, her shoulders stiffening, fingers twitching, resisting the urge to run forward.

The man beside her squeezed her hand in a grounding touch.

Just then, the farmhouse door flew open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man with deep bronze skin and graying locs stepped onto the veranda.