After that, she made it a ritual. Every night, she’d sit on her overturned bucket, lean her head against the cool metal of S119, and talk. She told it about the surface, a place she’d never seen, only studied in cracked data-slates. About the taste of recycled protein paste. About the dreams she had where the sky wasn't a concrete ceiling.
Above, the real stars were coming out. But Elara knew that the most loyal light she’d ever known was the one she left behind.
The first time Elara spoke to it was out of sheer loneliness. "Day 1,404," she whispered, wiping grime from its casing. "Still no transfer. Still no sun."
