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 didn't trust the readings yet. Instead she pulled up the station logs and searched the word 'greenhouse.' Most files were boring. But one was locked, marked with her grandmother's name — Eda, the station's first gardener, dead twenty years now. Mira's heart thumped. Why would a garden file be sealed?

Mira couldn't break the lock, so she went looking for someone who could — the station's quiet librarian-bot, Cass. Cass rolled out of its alcove, scanned the file, and went still. "This file is keyed to a heartbeat," it said. "Your grandmother's. And yours is close enough to match. It wants you to open it, Mira."