A tiny seed was pressed into damp earth beneath the first blush of dawn. A faint chill was felt in the air, and a gentle patter of water was allowed to soak the soil. Rustling leaves were heard nearby, and a hint of fresh grass was carried on the breeze. “It must be protected,” was often whispered by worried voices, though no faces were seen. A tense pause was experienced when dark clouds drifted overhead. Harsh winds were stirred, and cold drops of rain were scattered across the fragile sprout. For a moment, loss was feared.

Yet, as the storm receded, soft rays of sunlight were extended once more. New warmth was given to the tiny plant, and new leaves were sent unfurling. Steady care was maintained under quiet vigilance. Soon, blossoms were revealed in bursts of color, and a sweet, earthy scent was caught by passersby. In the end, succulent fruit was cradled by sturdy vines, and hushed wonder was shared around the flourishing garden. Thus, a harvest was quietly celebrated, and gratitude was felt for the seed that had thrived against all odds.

I stood in the doorway, my breath fogging in the icy air, staring at the trail of footprints in the fresh snow. They started from inside my house—right at the threshold where I now stood—and led outward, disappearing into the pale morning light. The snow had stopped falling just minutes ago, and the layer was pristine except for the steps. Which meant whoever—or whatever—had made them was here only moments before.

But I hadn’t been outside. And I lived alone.

A cold dread crept up my spine, sharper than the chill of the air. I slowly stepped back into the house and closed the door, locking it this time. My mind raced as I replayed the night before. I’d gone to bed around midnight, dead tired after a long day. Nothing unusual, no signs of anyone else in the house. I distinctly remembered locking the doors before turning off the lights.

Yet someone had been here. Someone who left without me noticing. Or worse—someone who was still inside.

I turned back toward the hallway, my ears straining for any sound. The house was silent, but too silent, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. I grabbed the fireplace poker from its stand—a ridiculous weapon, I knew, but it was the closest thing I could find. Slowly, I began checking the rooms, one by one.

The living room was empty. So was the kitchen. The bathroom door creaked as I nudged it open with the poker, but there was nothing inside. The silence was maddening, broken only by the sound of my own breathing and the occasional creak of the floorboards underfoot. Each empty room brought equal parts relief and unease. If there was no one here, then who left the footprints? And how had they gotten in?

I made my way upstairs, my heart pounding as I approached my bedroom. The door was ajar, just as I’d left it—but now, it felt ominous, like a trap. I pushed it open, ready to swing the poker at the slightest movement. But again, nothing. My bed was still unmade from when I’d gotten up, the curtains drawn tight against the pale morning light.

And then I saw it.

On my nightstand, where I’d left my glass of water, sat something that hadn’t been there before: a single black feather. Long and glossy, it gleamed faintly in the dim light filtering through the curtains. I picked it up carefully, turning it over in my hands. It was unnaturally smooth, with a strange warmth to it that felt out of place in my cold room. A shiver ran through me.

I hadn’t heard a bird all morning.

The sudden knock at the front door made me jump so violently I nearly dropped the poker. The sound echoed through the house, loud and deliberate. Someone was there. Someone who knew I was here.

I crept downstairs, clutching the poker tightly. Through the frosted glass of the front door, I could make out a shadowy figure standing perfectly still on the other side. My breath hitched as I hesitated, every instinct screaming at me not to open it.

The figure knocked again, slower this time. Deliberate. The sound was almost rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to move. I reached the door and opened it a crack, keeping the chain latched.

But there was no one there.

The footprints in the snow were gone. The yard was untouched, pristine, as if the snow had fallen all over again. But as I looked down, I saw something new—a small object placed neatly on the welcome mat.

Another black feather. And beneath it, a folded piece of paper.

With trembling hands, I reached down and picked up the paper. The feather slipped from my grasp and landed in the snow. I unfolded the note, the words scrawled in a handwriting I didn’t recognize.

“We’ll come back when you’re ready to remember.”

The snow around me was silent again, heavier somehow. And deep inside, a part of me stirred. A part of me I’d thought I’d forgotten.

The cold bites harder today than usual. Even under my thick layers, I can feel it creeping into my bones as I watch from the ridge. They haven’t seen me yet—I’ve made sure of that. It’s not hard to stay hidden out here, with the blinding snow whipping around like a living thing, obscuring everything more than a few feet away.

From here, the scene below is surreal: a team of people, dressed in bright red like drops of blood on a frozen canvas, clustered around the wreckage. The ship—it’s alien, though none of them dare say it aloud yet—gleams under its icy shroud. I wonder if they can hear it. That low, humming sound that emanates from its core. It’s faint but constant, a sound that rattles in your chest if you get too close. I know because I’ve been closer than any of them.

They’re fumbling, prying at the edges of the hull, trying to carve their way into the thing like it’s a prize to be won. Tools, machines, everything they’ve brought—it’s not enough. The ship doesn’t want to be opened, and it’s only letting them have what it chooses.

I know what’s inside. I saw it before they arrived. I didn’t mean to. I stumbled across the wreck while following tracks from a polar bear—though now I wonder if the tracks weren’t just an illusion, a lure. That’s the thing about this ship: it feels alive. It feels aware.

When I first touched it, I felt a warmth that shouldn’t have been possible in this frozen wasteland. A part of the ice melted under my gloves, and then the surface seemed to shift, almost like it was breathing. That was when I saw the figure inside. Encased in some kind of translucent cocoon, it wasn’t human—but it wasn’t entirely…not human, either. It was tall, elongated, with skin that shimmered faintly even in the dim light. Its eyes were closed, but I swear it turned its head toward me before I ran.

Now, as the red-suited team hacks away, I wonder if I made a mistake by not telling anyone. But what would I say? That I’ve seen something that shouldn’t exist? That it might still be alive? They wouldn’t have believed me. Maybe it’s better this way—better for them to discover it themselves. Except…part of me wonders if they’re waking something that shouldn’t be woken.

The wind shifts, carrying fragments of their shouted conversations to me. I can barely make out their words: “unnatural alloy,” “beyond comprehension,” “organic integration.” They’re scientists, explorers, and scavengers, each with their own agenda. But none of them look afraid. They should be.

I shift my weight, the snow crunching softly under my boots. One of them glances up in my direction, and I freeze. Have they seen me? No. Their attention quickly returns to the wreckage. Still, my heart pounds in my chest. I shouldn’t be here. The ship knows I’m here. That same hum that I felt days ago begins to build again, louder now. I can’t tell if it’s real or just in my head. My breath comes in clouds, fast and shallow. I should leave—now.

But something keeps me rooted in place. Curiosity? Fear? Or maybe it’s the ship itself, tugging at me like it did before. Whatever it is, I can’t look away.

Then it happens.

A blinding flash erupts from the hull as the team finally breaks through. The sound that follows is deafening—a roar that feels like it’s coming from deep within the Earth. The red-suited figures scatter, some falling to their knees, clutching their heads. The hum has turned into a pulse now, rhythmic and alive. And then I see it: a faint glow from inside the ship, growing brighter with each pulse.

The cocoon.

They’ve woken it.

I don’t stay to see what happens next. This time, I run.

And as I disappear into the storm, I hear it—an inhuman cry that shatters the air, echoing across the frozen wasteland. It’s awake now. And nothing will ever be the same.

Dear Mia,

I hope this letter finds you well in your corner of the Solar Network. I was delighted to receive your last holographic missive; it’s amazing how much clearer the image quality has gotten with the latest updates. It felt like you were right here in my living pod, though I could’ve done without your digital cat pawing at my face during the call!

Life here in Neo-Seattle is as bustling as ever, though I admit it has taken a turn toward the bizarre with the latest atmospheric modifications. The sky glowed an iridescent pink last week, a result of the Council experimenting with new reflective particles to offset solar flares. It was beautiful but disorienting—like living inside an opal. People are divided on whether it’s progress or just another ecological patch job. Personally, I miss the days when clouds were just clouds.

Speaking of changes, I finally upgraded my neural interface last month. The installation was painless, but adjusting to direct thought-to-data access has been surreal. No more typing or speaking to get answers; now I just think the question, and the answer materializes in my vision. Yesterday, I accidentally thought about old Earth cinema, and suddenly I was immersed in a 4D re-creation of some ancient movie called The Matrix. Have you seen it? It’s eerie how prescient some of those old films were about virtual realities. Makes me wonder if they had early insight into what was coming.

On a lighter note, I took my first trip to the Deep Sea Dome last weekend. It’s fascinating how much life thrives under the Atlantic’s pressure now that we’ve restored parts of the ecosystem. The bioluminescent reefs are stunning, and they’ve even started offering “swimming with engineered megalodons” tours. I wasn’t brave enough to try that yet, but maybe next time! I’d love for you to join me; we could make a day of it—assuming your schedule on Mars Colony doesn’t keep you tied up.

Do you ever think about what it was like to live in the 2020s? It’s strange to imagine a time when people couldn’t simply synthesize food at home or heal most illnesses with a single injection. I came across an article in the historical archives about something called a “commute.” Apparently, people used to spend hours traveling in fossil-fueled vehicles just to get to work. It’s hard to believe, especially when I can now hologram into my office or send a projection drone in my place.

Oh, before I forget, my garden AI tells me the Martian soil samples you sent last month are adapting well to hybrid terraflora. I’ll send you a packet of the seeds once they finish programming them for low-gravity growth. It’s such a thrill to think we’re cultivating plants that could someday feed an entire off-world colony!

Anyway, I should wrap this up. The communal VR park is hosting a live symphony from Europa’s ice caverns tonight, and I don’t want to miss it. Send my regards to your family, and let’s plan a synchronous meet-up soon—I promise I’ll keep my holographic pets in line this time.

Until then, take care and don’t let the dust storms get you down.

Warm regards from Earth,

Sana