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 grabbed her dad's old light sensor from the toolbox and pointed it at the empty dark the vines leaned toward. The screen flickered, then showed a tiny blip — a real source of light out there, too dim for her eyes but very real. "You're not crazy," she whispered to the beans. "There's something out there."

Mira followed the sensor down through the station's belly to a sealed hatch she'd never opened. The light was strongest here. She pried the hatch open and found a small room she didn't know existed — full of plants, all glowing softly, all turned to face one dark wall. They were waiting for something too.

Mira reached toward the glowing plants, and the moment she touched a leaf, the whole room dimmed. The light wasn't coming from the plants. It was passing through them, from somewhere far beyond the wall. She pressed her ear to the cold metal and heard it: a slow, steady pulse, like a giant heartbeat, getting louder.