Tonight, the hum changes pitch. I tell myself it’s a power fluctuation. I check the seals. They’re intact—eighteen locks, all green. But there’s condensation on the viewport. Frost in the shape of a hand.

I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But the hum has become a song now, and the song has a shape—a memory of forests that never existed, of rain that falls upward, of a sky with three suns. I touch the lock.

Not words. A vibration that resolves into meaning somewhere behind my teeth. "Let us out."

Behind me, the crew stirs. Their footsteps in the corridor sound like rain.

Eighteen clicks. One by one, the seals fall.