A Martin Chalfont Short Story – Number 026
To view the canvas print, click on the picture above
Eastern Thoughts – A single surge, a split-second burst of heat and energy, and Salma had been lost to him forever.
Mike sat in the dark corner of his apartment, dim lights casting faint shadows across his metallic limbs and tired eyes. Six years ago, he’d felt whole, complete, and alive with his partner, Salma, by his side. Now, that life was a memory he struggled to hold onto, slipping like sand through the intricate circuits of his mind.
Mike and Salma had been cyborgs—a rare breed that bridged the gap between humanity and machine. They’d met at university, both drawn to the dream of traveling beyond the confines of Earth, of building a life among the stars. They’d made plans to join the space colonies orbiting Jupiter, a chance to build a future together in a world that was both familiar and breathtakingly new.
But all of that had changed in a single, tragic instant. During a routine training exercise for the colonies, Salma had been called on to troubleshoot an issue with an experimental propulsion device. It had been a rare defect, something no one could have predicted. A single surge, a split-second burst of heat and energy, and Salma had been lost to him forever.
Mike couldn’t remember the moments immediately after her death. He had flashes of memories—medical teams, shattered steel panels, the scent of smoke mixed with coolant, and the weight of numbness setting in. He had returned to his apartment alone, his heart heavy, his mind spinning, as if he were trapped in some terrible dream.
The days after her death passed in a haze. He shut himself off from the world, his grief a constant, sharp presence. Salma had been his anchor, his mirror, his future. Without her, he felt hollow, like the gears in his body had stopped moving, like his circuitry had dimmed and faded.
It was only after a long year of silence that he found himself longing to see her face again—not just in memories, but in a way that felt real, tangible, something he could hold onto. It was then that he decided to commission a portrait of her.
He had heard of a renowned artist, an old-fashioned master who still painted by hand, using brushes and colours, despite the ease of digital art and holographic renderings. This artist, known simply as Watanabe, had become famous for his ability to capture not only the appearance but the essence of his subjects. And so, Mike reached out to him, hoping that somehow, this painting might bring him closer to Salma again.
Watanabe worked from the photos and holograms Mike had provided, images from happier days. For weeks, the artist painted, carefully applying brushstroke after brushstroke, layer upon layer, capturing the beauty in Salma’s dark eyes, the curve of her smile, and the warmth in her gaze. He chose vibrant colours, colours that Mike had almost forgotten—the rich, deep reds she loved to wear, and the soft glint of silver that ran down her frame.
The day the portrait was completed, Watanabe invited Mike to view it in his studio. As he stood before the painting, Mike felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—a surge of life, a reminder of what he had lost but also a strange, bittersweet comfort. There she was, Salma, as he remembered her, gazing at him with all the warmth and love they had once shared.
"She was beautiful," Watanabe murmured, stepping back to let Mike stand alone with the portrait. "I could feel her essence through your memories."
Mike nodded, his voice caught in his throat. "She was…everything," he whispered, his fingers tracing the air before him as though he could reach through the canvas and touch her face. The colours, vibrant and almost pulsating with life, seemed to capture the way she had brightened his world, even in the darkest moments.
He decided to bring the portrait home, placing it in his small apartment where it would greet him every day. It was there, in that space, that he began to find a strange sense of peace. He spoke to her in the quiet moments, his words an echo in the silence, a whispered confession of his loneliness, his love, his grief. And each time, he felt as though she listened, as if her eyes followed him, holding him in the way she once had.
But as time passed, Mike found himself feeling trapped. The portrait, beautiful as it was, began to weigh on him. It was a reminder, yes, but also a tether, something that held him back, kept him grounded in the past. He knew he couldn’t remain here forever, staring at a memory, longing for a future that would never be. And so, after long nights of contemplation, he made a decision.
One evening, he packed up his belongings, stowing the essentials into a small case, and, carefully wrapping Salma’s portrait, he prepared to leave Earth. He had decided to go to the colonies after all, to carry on the journey they had once dreamed of together. He couldn’t bring her back, but he could keep his promise to her, to live the life they had planned, even if it meant doing so alone.
The journey to the colonies was quiet, a vast expanse of stars and silence stretching before him as he travelled across the void. He kept Salma’s portrait close, and when the loneliness felt overwhelming, he would look at her, letting the memories wash over him, grounding him.
Finally, he arrived at the colony orbiting Jupiter, a sprawling network of space habitats and cities floating in the shadow of the massive planet. It was breathtaking, a sight they had both dreamed of seeing together, and yet, standing there alone, Mike felt a pang of sadness that no beauty could dispel.
Life on the colony was different, strange and challenging, but also invigorating. He found himself meeting new people, learning new skills, adapting to the rhythms of life in space. And yet, each night, he would return to his quarters, where Salma’s portrait hung on the wall, a silent witness to his solitude.
Over time, he began to speak to her less, the conversations fading into quiet reflections. He would look at her face and feel a sadness, but also a warmth, a reminder of the love they had shared. He wondered, sometimes, if she would have wanted him to let go, to move on, to find happiness again.
One evening, he found himself standing before the portrait, the stars shining through the window behind him, Jupiter’s swirling colours painting the room in soft hues. He looked at her face, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over him.
"Salma," he whispered, his voice barely a breath. "I love you. I’ll always love you."
And in that moment, he felt as though she was there with him, smiling, urging him forward, giving him the strength to finally, truly, let go. The vibrant colours of her portrait seemed to shift in the dim light, her eyes almost twinkling, as though she were telling him that it was okay, that he could find happiness again.
With a heavy heart but a newfound strength, Mike took one last look at her face, then turned away. He didn’t know what lay ahead, but he knew that he would carry her memory with him, a quiet presence guiding him as he continued his journey.
As he stepped into the corridor, the portrait remained behind, a silent reminder of a love that had transcended even the boundaries of life and death. And though he walked forward, alone in the vastness of space, he felt as though she were still with him, her memory a beacon of light guiding him into the future.