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.

Elara looked at the container’s manifest again. Beneath the buyer’s name, in tiny print she’d missed before: Delivery deadline: 02:17 ship-time, Day 218. Late penalty: forfeiture of biological assets and crew. juy 217

She checked the ship’s clock. It was 02:16. On the third night, she saw it: a

“Sensor ghost,” said Chief Engineer Mikkel, not looking up from his diagnostics. “Thermal coupling with the engine manifold.” The hand of a child, fingers spread as if waving hello

“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.”

“I’m JUY 217,” the girl said, as if it were obvious. “But my real name is Anya. I got lost in the Rift. A man in a silver suit put me in the box to keep me safe. He said someone would come. He said you’d be kind.”