He watches the sunrise on the Ganges. It is absolutely stunning. Words cannot convey the dazzling beauty. But then the light fades and he is left with his thoughts. He turns off the music. He loves space.
He could not believe when NASA decided to cut the shuttle program. He knows this is his last mission. He knew it before he left.
Most people, he reflects, would hate the place they were when their spouse left them. But the solitude, the silence, the perspective. From space, there are no boundaries. Wars do not matter. Relationships do not matter.
He is not happy. Few are happy when faced with imminent death. But he is glad.
He is glad he is here. He is glad Ryan will survive. He is glad he will beat Anatoly's record. He is glad he will pass out before he dies, that death will not hurt.
He sees everything from up here. The black of night, the grey of sprawling metropolises, the green of farm and forest, the tan of desert, the blue of ocean, the white of clouds.
He feasts his eyes. He turns the music on and feasts his ears. "My last meal." He murmurs to himself.
And he smiles because he knows he had a handhold on the ISS, but he chose to let go, and he is glad.