Mira pressed her hand to the cold greenhouse glass and watched her breath fog it up. Outside, the station turned slowly around Veil, a dying red star whose weak light always arrived late and faint. But her bean vines weren't reaching for that tired star. Every leaf and curling tendril had turned the other way, toward the empty dark. Mira frowned. Plants follow light. So what light were they following?

Mira decided the plants must be sick or confused, nothing more. She turned to fix them, to twist the vines back toward Veil's red glow. But the moment her fingers touched a leaf, the whole vine pulled away from her hand, leaning harder into the dark. Mira jerked back. Plants don't move like that. Not on their own.