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 cracked the lock using her grandmother's birthday — it worked on the first try. The file opened to a single shaky video. Eda's tired face filled the screen. "If you're seeing this, the plants have started turning again," she said. "It means it's awake. Don't ignore it like I did." Then the video cut out.

Mira ignored the warning. She turned off the sensor, dimmed the greenhouse, and went to bed, telling herself it was just old plants and an old ghost story. But that night she woke to a soft glow under her door. The vines had grown out of the greenhouse, down the hall, and were curling around her bed — gently, patiently, waiting for her to finally listen.