Artemis III Lunar Base has two kinds of rooms: those facing Earth, and those that don’t.

During new-crew orientation, Tsujimoto always asks the same question. “Which side would you prefer?” Nine out of ten choose the Earth-facing side. The remaining one in ten says “Either is fine,” then submits a transfer request within two weeks of moving in.

So Sakaki’s answer stuck with him.

“The side without the view, please.”

No hesitation. Not a moment’s pause.

Tsujimoto confirmed anyway. “The Earth-facing rooms are more popular. Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“The other side is just rock and black space out the window.”

“I know.”

He didn’t ask why. The orientation manual said not to — room preferences were a matter of privacy, and Tsujimoto was the kind of person who followed rules like that.

Sakaki was assigned to the geological survey team. Diligent worker, concise reports, got along fine with colleagues. The only thing anyone noticed: she always chose a seat in the cafeteria where she couldn’t see Earth. She never visited the observation deck.

In the second month, a scheduled maintenance shut down the Earth-facing-away module for three days. Everyone relocated temporarily to the Earth side. Sakaki was no exception.

On the first night, Tsujimoto happened to pass her in the corridor. She was just stepping out of her temporary room, and something in her face looked off.

“You okay?”

“Fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”

The next day, and the day after that, the shadows under her eyes deepened. On the third morning, she sat across from him in the cafeteria, drank three cups of coffee, and said quietly:

“When I can see it, I start counting.”

“Counting what?”

“Cloud clusters over the Japanese archipelago. Seven or more, I think it’s raining. Five or fewer, probably clear. Then I start wondering if she remembered to bring in the laundry.”

Tsujimoto said nothing.

“My mother lives alone. Her memory’s been slipping — she’ll fall asleep and leave laundry out on the line.” Sakaki paused. “I can still call her. But seeing it is the problem. I read the clouds, I guess at the weather, the guessing turns into worry, and then I can’t get anything done. So I decided before I came: don’t look.”

She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup. “When I can’t see it, it’s just 380,000 kilometers. When I can, it’s the sky above my mother’s house.”

That afternoon, maintenance finished ahead of schedule. Sakaki was the first one back to her room.

In the third month, a transfer request from Sakaki landed on Tsujimoto’s desk. It wasn’t a request to move to the Earth-facing side.

Request for reassignment to the Lunar Perimeter Survey Team.

The perimeter team camps at sites more than fifty kilometers from base for days at a time. Communications run on a low-bandwidth work-only channel. Personal calls are nearly impossible. No windows. Through a spacesuit visor, you see rock, dust, and black sky.

In the reason field, Sakaki had written:

If I can’t see her, I can believe she’s okay.

Tsujimoto stamped the form. Then he looked out the window. The blue Earth hung above the lunar horizon. He counted six cloud clusters.

Tokyo, he figured, was probably overcast.