Juy 217 -

“You’re late,” the girl said. Her voice was soft, but it filled the cargo bay like a bell. “I’ve been counting. Two million, three hundred thousand, eleven seconds.”

Anya tilted her head. “Time doesn’t move the same when you’re a secret. But it feels heavy. Like wearing a coat made of goodbyes.” juy 217

On the third night, she saw it: a faint, translucent hand pressed against the inner glass of JUY 217’s viewport. Not fungal. Not crystalline. The hand of a child, fingers spread as if waving hello. The temperature inside the container was 37.2°C. “You’re late,” the girl said

She’d logged thirty thousand hours in deep space. She’d watched starfish-like creatures dissolve their own skeletons to communicate. She’d held a sentient crystal that wept when it sensed loneliness. None of it unnerved her like JUY 217. Two million, three hundred thousand, eleven seconds