Three graves on a little moon surrounded by an ion cloud: one empty, one filled, one no longer needed.

One hundred and sixty waves piled up in a lost account, unread for thirteen years.

Wash doesn't speak for a minute.

"Same way with all of us," he murmurs finally, and takes a long swallow of alcohol. "Even if they leave."

A small quirk of a smile, somewhat flattened at the corners. "I mean, they always know where to come back to, right?"