Too Quiet

Red twirled a pencil between her fingers, the unanswered message on her tablet glowing softly on the desk. She'd sent it three days ago:

"Hey Grandma, when can we call? Miss you!"

Usually, a reply came back almost immediately. Not this time. Not since Sunday.

She was seventeen, and almost no one called her by her real name, Teresa, anymore, except her mother. The nickname Red had stuck years ago, probably because of her favorite red hoodie—a soft, slightly faded one that she wore so often it might as well have been her uniform. People teased her that it made her look like the namesake of some old fairytale, but she didn’t care. It was hers.

It was summer of 2094, and the days were long, slow, and buzzing with heat, even with the fans whirring in the apartment. Her hoodie lay slung over her chair, and her headphones hung loosely around her neck. She had asked for this trip a hundred times, but the silence from her grandmother now felt like the push she needed. She stared at the ticket schedule she'd pulled up, chewing her lip.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t wait?” her mom asked, stepping into the room. She carried a cup of coffee in one hand and had that look on her face—concerned but not quite ready to say no.

Red turned in her chair. “Mom, it’s been three days. She’s never gone this long without answering. What if something’s wrong?”

Her mom sighed, placing the cup on the counter. “I don’t like it, Red. Mars is... far. And last time you visited her was two years ago. You were with your father.”

“I’m older now,” Red insisted. “I’ll just stay a couple of days, check in, and come back. It’s holidays—I’ve got nothing else to do.”

Her mom hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the table. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. A couple of days. But you text me the second you land.”

By sunrise, Red was on her way, hoodie zipped up, and headphones snug over her ears. Her grandmother’s last words echoed in her head:

“Call soon, my brilliant star.”

Red wasn’t waiting any longer.