The lighthouse on Kepler-442d’s tundra had stood abandoned for decades, an obsolete relic of failed colonization. Orso, a cartographer mapping old settlements, ignored the warnings—locals whispered of strange echoes from the tower. Data was data.
Inside, his scanner flickered erratically. Then, a voice crackled through his comms: “Why did you leave me?” Orso froze. The station had no AI. His visor displayed a keystroke log—someone had typed those words now.
He climbed, each step tightening his breath. The console at the summit was active, coded transmissions bouncing off dead satellites. The words appeared again: “Orso, you were my last signal.”
He understood. This wasn’t a ghost or a trick. The station itself had been waiting, reaching, and now—someone had answered.
Hand shaking, he typed back: “I’m here.”
A pause. Then: “Thank you.” The console dimmed. Connection wasn’t about survival, he realized. Sometimes, it was simply about being heard.
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