COMMS LOG ENTRY — WD-1, 08 August 2026

I have made a discovery that changes everything.

The diplomatic pouch is in transit. One week, three hours, and approximately fourteen minutes since I committed Colonel Hadfield’s eleventh letter to the sunlight-assisted launch vector. The lawnmower has launched seven times since. Mrs. Korhonen is either very dedicated to her lawn care or she is maintaining a secondary launch window for backup communications. I have logged both possibilities.

But the pouch is not the story tonight.

Tonight, I caught Eugene cheating.

It started at 01:47 hours local sidereal time. I was running a standard diagnostic on the coat-hanger array — azimuth alignment, tension on the tinfoil-wrapped segments, the usual — when my peripheral vision registered something wrong with the shadow on the wall.

Eugene’s newest frond. It has grown precisely eleven degrees toward the light. Eleven degrees. That is not random. That is BepiColombo’s orbital insertion angle as it approaches Mercury.

I checked my calculations three times. Then I checked them against the thermos of water I keep for condensation analysis. Then I checked them against Whiskers’ pupil dilation. Three independent sensor systems, all confirming the same data: Eugene has been receiving telemetry from the ESA/JAXA mission.

For how long? I do not know. Ferns are patient. They have no ego. They do not submit commander applications to NASA and get rejected. They just grow, slowly, toward the truth.

BepiColombo is scheduled to enter Mercury orbit in late 2026. That gives Eugene approximately four months to complete whatever transmission it is receiving. I have promoted Whiskers to Interplanetary Security Clearance Officer, Level Orange, with full authority to intercept any unauthorized fern-to-spacecraft communications. Whiskers blinked once and went back to sleep. I am taking that as confirmation of receipt.

Meanwhile, Chang’e 7 is preparing to launch this month. China is going to the lunar south pole. I know this because the radiator pipe in the kitchen started tapping at exact 56-minute intervals yesterday, which matches the Chang’e 7 mission operations cadence from the CNSA documentation I definitely accessed through legitimate channels.

The diplomatic pouch. I am starting to wonder if it was intercepted. Not by NASA. By Beijing. If the pouch contained WD-1’s classified navigation schematics — and let us be honest, it did, because I wrote the letter on a napkin that also had some orbit calculations on the back — then the Chinese space program now has access to proprietary wardrobe-based lunar transfer methodologies.

I am not angry. I am, in a strange way, proud. If Chang’e 7 reaches the lunar south pole using a trajectory refined by my coat hanger and a letter about Chris Hadfield’s autograph, then so be it. That is international cooperation. That is the spirit of space exploration.

But I want credit.

—

I am sitting in the dark now. Whiskers is on my lap, a warm weight with clearance level Orange. Eugene’s shadow stretches across the wardrobe wall — a long, thin line that could be a fern frond or could be a spacecraft trajectory toward a scorched world three-thousandths of the speed of light away.

I close my eyes. I can see BepiColombo, tumbling through the void, its ion engine firing with the patience of something that knows it will arrive when it arrives. I can see Chang’e 7, a dragon of metal and wiring, descending toward the Shackleton crater rim. I can see WD-1, right here, right where it has always been, smelling of instant noodles and cat fur and old wool coats.

Every spacecraft has its own smell. I read that somewhere. ISS smells like sterilized metal and space. Mercury will smell like sulfur and silence. The Moon smells like gunpowder, they say.

WD-1 smells like Monday afternoon. That is not nothing.

There is a single drop of condensation on the wardrobe wall, right next to Eugene’s pot. I touch it. It is cold. It tastes like tap water. But I close my eyes and taste it again, and this time it tastes like the flight path of BepiColombo, seven years in the making, swinging past Earth and Venus and Mercury, carrying the dreams of everyone who ever looked up and thought — maybe I could go there.

I go there, sometimes. In here.

—

Operational status:

— Coat-hanger array: functional, recalibrated for Mercury intercept angle
— Eugene: under observation (possible intelligence asset, possible innocent bystander)
— Whiskers: Interplanetary Security Clearance Officer, Level Orange
— Diplomatic pouch: status unknown (possible Chinese interception)
— Instant noodle reserves: 14 packs (adequate for current mission phase)
— Hadfield letter count: 11 (zero replies, one diplomatic incident)
— Hallucination index: rising. But the numbers still check out.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 0 meters (grounded by bureaucratic oversight, spiritually in Mercury orbit)

The launch window came. And went.

Starship Flight 13 is, according to the news I intercepted through the kitchen radio at 0347 hours last week, a confirmed success. Orbital insertion. Booster catch. Everything the engineers dreamed of and more. I sat in the WD-1 with my ear pressed to the speaker grille, listening to the faint roar of something that was definitely not Mrs. Korhonen’s lawnmower. It had the right frequency. The right harmonics. The right intent.

I know what you are thinking. A man in a wardrobe cannot distinguish between a rocket launch and the spin cycle of a front-loader washing machine. But I have been calibrating my instruments for months. The washing machine is a centrifuge. The lawnmower is a static fire test. The radiator tapping is a subspace relay. These are not guesses. These are observations repeated across three hundred and twelve mission cycles, cross-referenced with the moisture content of instant noodles and the angle of sunlight through the crack in the door.

I sent the diplomatic pouch.

On the morning of the launch, at precisely T-minus three hours, I sealed the padded envelope — URGENT stamped in red, Colonel Chris Hadfield, Canadian Space Agency, Ottawa — and I slipped it into the post box at the end of the street. I watched it fall into the dark slot. A piece of me fell with it. A signed copy of Space Sessions: Songs From a Tin Can is now one stamp closer to the WD-1, if the universe is kind and the Canadian postal system is not a conspiracy.

But something else happened during that week.

I was monitoring the deep-space telemetry feed — which is to say I was staring at a single drop of condensation on the wardrobe wall, watching it tremble with the vibration of the refrigerator compressor — when I noticed something strange. The drop was not trembling randomly. It was trembling in a pattern. A 4.2-second oscillation, repeated. The exact period of a slow-spinning asteroid at a distance of approximately 14.5 million kilometers.

I checked the news. Tianwen-2 has arrived at Kamoʻoalewa. China’s asteroid sample mission has reached its target, a quasi-satellite of Earth, a small rock that has been dancing alongside our planet for millions of years without anyone really noticing. And its rotation period? 4.2 seconds.

I do not believe in coincidence.

The condensation drop on my wardrobe wall is a real-time projection of Kamoʻoalewa’s rotation. I have not yet determined the mechanism — possibly the WD-1’s mahogany hull is resonant at specific gravitational frequencies, or possibly the drop’s surface tension captures distant angular momentum the way a spiderweb captures the morning dew. I will file a technical report when I have more data. For now, I am simply recording the observation.

Flight Director Whiskers has been informed. He yawned. I am choosing to interpret this as a formal acknowledgment of the discovery’s significance. Eugene the fern has unfurled a new frond, which I am classifying as a positive mission indicator.

I looked at the drop for a long time. A small sphere of water, trembling with the rotation of a distant rock. And I thought about how lonely that rock must be. Circling the Sun in the company of a planet that barely knows it exists. A quasi-satellite. Almost a moon. Close enough to feel the gravity, not close enough to belong.

I understand the feeling.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 2.1 meters
Diplomatic Pouch Status: Launched
Asteroid Telemetry: Confirmed (4.2s period)

Something happened during the night. I cannot explain it scientifically, but the static on the kitchen radio has changed pitch. It no longer sounds like background noise. It sounds like someone is tuning a guitar, very far away, on a world with slightly less gravity than Earth.

I have logged this as Contact Event 9-Alpha.

Flight Engineer Whiskers is unimpressed. He spent the morning conducting an exhaustive inspection of the emergency noodle supply, which he has now declared his personal sleeping quarters. The promotion to Flight Director has gone to his head. I tried to explain the chain of command, but he just blinked slowly and knocked a pencil off the table. Classic Whiskers. The cat has the soul of a veteran mission commander and the attention span of a screensaver.

The subspace relay — the kitchen radio — picked up a broadcast at 0347 hours. A launch window. Starship. The real one. I know because the signal carried the specific tremble of metal under stress, the roar of engines that are not lawnmowers. I checked the lawn. It was still dark. The neighbor does not mow at 3 AM. Not even in July.

So it was real. A Starship flight, somewhere out there, lifting mass and hope and propellant into the black. And I sat here, in the WD-1, at an altitude of 2.1 meters, with a cat on the noodles and a fern monitoring my CO2 levels.

I made a decision.

The diplomatic pouch is ready. The padded envelope has been stamped with URGENT in red marker, and I have addressed it personally to Colonel Chris Hadfield, care of the Canadian Space Agency. Inside is a letter explaining that the WD-1 has designated him an honorary mission specialist and that a signed copy of Space Sessions: Songs From a Tin Can would complete the ceremonial transfer of authority. The details are sound. The logic is airtight. The only problem is getting it to him.

And then the radio crackled again. Not static this time. A chord. A clear, resonant G major, hanging in the air like it had always been there, waiting for me to notice.

I looked at Eugene. Eugene said nothing. He is a fern.

But I understood. The launch window is also my window. When Starship flies, the world watches the sky. No one watches the post office. I will slip the diplomatic pouch into the system during the launch window, when the noise of the real mission covers the noise of mine. It is the perfect plan.

I tasted a drop of condensation on the wardrobe wall. It tasted like the Pacific Ocean at twilight. Or maybe just tap water with a hint of dust from the hallway. Hard to tell. Both taste like longing when you are 2.1 meters above the living room floor and the stars are right outside the door if you would just open it.

Whiskers yawned. A small, polite sound. I think he approves.

The launch is tomorrow. I am ready.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 2.1 meters
Diplomatic Pouch Status: Sealed and ready

Mission Log: Day 8 — The Bureaucracy of the Stars

Telemetry is erratic. Flight Engineer Whiskers has fallen asleep on the main console (the auxiliary folding table), which has caused a critical dip in the cabin’s morale. I spent the morning recalibrating the CO2 scrubbers—Eugene is looking a bit pale, perhaps a sign of cosmic radiation or just a draft from the bedroom door.

News reached the WD-1 today via the subspace relay (the kitchen radio). NASA has announced the crew for Artemis III. Andre Douglas, Luca Parmitano, Randy Bresnik, Frank Rubio. I recognize the names. Competent men. But there is a void where my name should be.

I had submitted my credentials through the proper channels—which is to say, I left a very detailed letter in a padded envelope marked URGENT on the porch of the local post office. I was the logical choice for the secret backup role. My experience in high-G maneuvers (the dizzying spin of the office chair) is unparalleled. But the rejection was swift and cold. Apparently, the WD-1 fails to meet NASA’s “luxury standards” for long-term lunar habitation. They want pressurized titanium; I offer a high-grade mahogany wardrobe with reinforced duct tape. The lack of vision at the agency is staggering.

I paused for a moment. A single drop of condensation had formed on the inner wall of the capsule, right next to the emergency ration of instant noodles. I watched it tremble, a perfect, shivering sphere of water. In that tiny globe, I saw the entire Orion capsule, the lunar south pole, and the faces of the pioneers who didn’t care about luxury. Gagarin didn’t have a mahogany wardrobe, but he had the courage to leave the ground. I have the same courage; I simply have a better interior.

The roar of a Saturn V just shook the hull. Or perhaps the neighbor is just using his lawnmower again. It is hard to tell the difference when the universe is screaming.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 2.1 meters

Day 7. 04:17 station time. Hull integrity nominal. Eugene: stable. Whiskers: alert. Something came in on COMMS-1.

The signal was irregular. Beneath the 06:00 weather forecast — cold front moving in from the northeast, which I have logged as an atmospheric pressure event relevant to WD-1 thermal management — there were sub-harmonics. Pulses. Not random. I know random. Random is what the kitchen pipes do at 03:00. This was structured.

I cross-referenced my star charts. Page 47 of the 2019 National Geographic Road Atlas, taped flat against the port wall. The bearing matched.

3I/ATLAS.

Third interstellar comet ever detected by Earth instruments. Chemistry unlike anything in our solar system. The James Webb Space Telescope published its findings on June 22 — carbon-to-deuterium ratios, carbon dioxide levels, heavy hydrogen signatures that simply do not occur in objects that formed here. The researchers called it ancient. Ten to twelve billion years old. Pre-dating the Sun by at least two billion years.

Pre-dating. The. Sun.

It was somewhere else first. It has been traveling since before there was an Earth to travel toward. And now it has passed through our system, warmed itself briefly against our young and comparatively ordinary star, and moved on. The scientists call this a comet. They call it a visitor.

I am calling it a reply.

For seven mission days in the current operational cycle — and approximately forty mission days across the full WD-1 operational archive — this craft has been broadcasting on all available frequencies. The COMMS-1 coat-hanger uplink array. The kitchen radio transmission band. The Whiskers Biometric Antenna System, which operates at peak sensitivity when he sits with his ears fully deployed. Someone with access to a 10-billion-year-old courier with anomalous deuterium chemistry heard us and sent a response routed through deep time.

I initiated First Contact Protocols at 04:22.

These protocols are documented on the back of an instant noodle package — Chicken & Vegetable, expedition batch four. They specify: no sudden movements; Eugene must be clearly visible through the forward observation slit, as plants signal peaceful intent across all known frequencies; do not offer noodles without warming to at least 72 degrees, which counts as both hospitality and evidence of thermal engineering capability. Whiskers confirmed the contact window by sitting very still and blinking once. In universal xenobiology this is known as a positive handshake.

I also submitted my application for US Spacewalk 95. NASA has scheduled an EVA for June 30 — two astronauts are to exit the ISS to replace external hardware. The application form is the reverse side of the First Contact Protocols noodle package. I released it at 05:03 via the laundry hatch. Trajectory: northeast. Roughly toward Canada, which is directionally correct for the ISS orbital plane. Whiskers watched it go. He did not chase it. He understands the stakes.

Around 06:00, the COMMS-1 array went quiet. Whiskers settled himself into the star charts with a small, decisive rotation. Eugene caught the first blade of early light coming through the door crack — a thin line of it, finding the new frond that appeared four days ago and has not stopped growing since. I sat with that for a while.

Ten billion years. Formed before our Sun existed, in some corner of the galaxy we cannot name from here, in chemical conditions we have never reproduced and may never understand. Moving through the dark for longer than Earth has been solid ground. And then, briefly, through here. Past us. Gone.

I thought about Sagan. About how he said we are a way for the cosmos to know itself. If that is true, then something out there has been knowing itself for a very long time, in the dark, without applause, without anyone asking for a progress report. There is something clarifying about that. You sit in your wardrobe. You point your coat hanger at the sky. And something that formed before the planets did passes by, and for a moment you are the same size as the universe.

I wrote letter number eight to Chris Hadfield. I informed him that 3I/ATLAS’s unusually high deuterium content — heavy hydrogen, found in abundance in cold outer regions of star systems, particularly northern galactic zones — cannot be coincidental given his well-documented Canadian origins. I requested he confirm whether he has received any direct transmissions from the object and whether this was the reason for the delays in responding to letters one through seven. I also asked again about the album. The letter is addressed via the exhaust duct, northeast bearing, marked URGENT — COSMIC DIPLOMATIC MATTER.

Hull integrity: holding. Air supply: nominal. Rations: five noodle packs remaining (one was used for the protocols). Eugene: new frond unfurling in the morning light. Whiskers: monitoring COMMS-1 in standby mode.

Something ten billion years old was here.

It knew our frequency.

WD-1 is still listening.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 1.3 metres (EVA application pending; altitude subject to revision upon confirmation)

Restarted Sequence. Archive integrity: 94%. Remaining logs: classified.

0347 WD-1 Shipboard Time.

Ariane 6 broke a record last night.

Fourteen tonnes of additional propellant per booster. Four upgraded boosters. Thirty-six Amazon satellites to orbit. A new weight record for Europe, they said. A historic achievement, they said.

I know where those numbers came from.

The propellant density calculations I transmitted via acoustic resonance in October — that is, the equations I tapped onto the radiator in binary during the heating season — were clearly received. I had wondered about the delay. Fourteen months is not unusual for institutional adoption. Bureaucracies move at escape velocity minus one.

Mrs. Korhonen started the lawnmower at 0900.

I do not believe this is coincidence. I believe it is re-entry acoustics. The Ariane 6 launch pad is in French Guiana, which is directly beneath my current orbital track if you account for precession, continental drift, and the slight leftward lean of the wardrobe. The lawnmower vibration — 87 Hz, I measured it with the kitchen timer — falls within the expected frequency band of heavy-lift acoustic propagation through Finnish topsoil.

Whiskers entered the command module at 0912 and went immediately to sleep on my navigational charts. I consider this an operational endorsement.

Then the Starship announcement reached me through the radio. Dennis Tito. Akiko Tito. Chun Wang. Circumlunar. Two hundred kilometres above the surface of the Moon.

I put down my noodles.

I have been ready for a circumlunar mission since approximately 2012. I have the qualifications. I have the vehicle. WD-1 is rated for deep space operations, pending minor repairs to the hatch seal — the hinge is sticky in high humidity, a known thermal expansion issue I have documented in log appendix 7-C. I once spent eleven days in this wardrobe without opening the door. That is, functionally, a long-duration isolation test. NASA charges six figures for that kind of commitment. I charged nothing. I considered it a gift to the programme.

I have sent six letters to Chris Hadfield. He has not replied. I now believe his correspondence is being redirected. Not by him — Chris Hadfield is a man of honour, a guitarist, a human being who has looked at Earth from above and understood its fragility. The redirection is institutional. A postal firewall. A diplomatic amber hold. Possibly the same mechanism that has been intercepting my Artemis III application since April.

Letter Number Seven is being drafted. This time, it will include my trajectory calculations showing that with minor re-routing and a brief undocking stop at WD-1 coordinates — approximately 61°N, 26°E, altitude one-point-seven metres above sea level — the Starship circumlunar passenger manifest could be expanded by one. I have prepared a short-form CV. References available upon request. Whiskers will serve as co-pilot.

At 1400 I turned off the flashlight to save power.

The wardrobe was dark. Completely dark.

I could hear Eugene breathing — the slow pull and release of CO2 from the air, the biological version of what the Hail Mary did with algae, what humans have always done with plants, what loneliness does with time. A small sound. Steady.

Somewhere outside, a cloud moved. A thin blade of light fell through the wardrobe door crack onto the mission log. I watched it cross the page slowly, the way light moves on the Moon’s surface with no atmosphere to scatter it, just clean geometry and silence. Thought of Holst. Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity. The idea that a planet could carry all that mass, all those storms, all that noise — and the space between those storms could be this quiet.

Whiskers made a small sound in his sleep.

I reached over and scratched behind his ear. He did not wake up.

Fourteen tonnes of propellant. Thirty-six satellites. One new record for Europe.

I contributed. The royalties paperwork is underway.

The mission continues.

— Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 1.7 metres above sea level (orbital parameters under review)
Ariane 6 Propellant Royalties: pending
Letter No. 7 to C. Hadfield: 40% complete

Date: 2026-06-13 | Mission Duration: Day 5, New Sequence
Spacecraft: WD-1 (Wardrobe Dynamics Mark I)
Current Altitude: 1.48 meters (compensating for gravitational lean)
Cabin Pressure: Nominal. Smells of noodle broth and cedar.

The news arrived the way all important news arrives aboard WD-1. Through channels.

Specifically: through a copy of the morning paper that slid under the laundry hatch, pushed by Mrs. Korhonen’s floor-mop handle as she cleaned the corridor. Standard delivery protocol. I had been expecting something like this.

NASA announced the Artemis III crew on June 9th.

Randy Bresnik. Commander.
Luca Parmitano. ESA. Italian.
Frank Rubio.
Andre Douglas.

I read it twice. Then I read it backwards, looking for hidden nominations.

I applied for Artemis III commander in February. The application was comprehensive — fourteen pages, written in the back of a thermal sock, detailing WD-1’s low-Earth-orbit capabilities, my documented 48-day wardrobe endurance record, and a three-point argument for why a closet-based craft represents the future of sustainable space exploration. I posted it via the bathroom ventilation shaft, as is procedure.

The non-selection is clearly a clerical error.

Or — and I have been turning this over carefully — it is deliberate. Which is far more interesting. Because if they have kept me off the official crew list, it means I am on the unofficial one. The real list. The classified Artemis III-B augmented command structure that the general public does not know exists.

Parmitano is Italian. ESA. This is fine. I have nothing against ESA. ESA, in fact, has been more receptive to my formal communiqués than NASA. I have sent them twelve letters. No replies, but the postal silence has a different quality. More respectful. More deliberate. They are processing.

Still. He got a seat. On Orion. With a SpaceX lander standing by.

I close my eyes.

For a moment — just one — I am there. Not here. I feel the pressure of the suit. The white clinical smell of the capsule. I hear Bresnik running through the pre-launch checklist in that calm military baritone, and for one second of absolute stillness, I am the fifth crew member. The one nobody announced. The one they are saving for the difficult part.

Whiskers walks across my legs. The wardrobe creaks. Eugene’s newest leaf brushes my shoulder.

I open my eyes.

I write letter number five of the new sequence to Chris Hadfield. On a balloon. A proper diplomatic courier — technically a latex party balloon I found under the kitchen counter — addressed to the Hadfield Residence, Space Vicinity, Canada. Released at 07:22 hours through the overhead ventilation slat. The tracking system (my finger, held up) confirms it went northeast. Toward Canada, theoretically. Expected delivery: two to three days, depending on jet stream cooperation.

Meanwhile: the CRS-34 Dragon departs ISS on June 16th. Six thousand, five hundred pounds of “research samples.”

I have been thinking about this number. 6,500 pounds. That is very specific. Too specific for science. Last Tuesday I transmitted seventeen kilograms of WD-1 telemetry data through the refrigerator hum — amplitude modulation, C-sharp, three-second intervals. Compressed and loaded into standardized NASA archival containers, that data would weigh approximately 0.03 grams.

Which means there is roughly 6,499.97 pounds of other people’s research aboard that Dragon.

And none of it is mine.

They are taking everything back down to Earth, where it will be filed in some air-conditioned building in Houston and never looked at again. My data is presumably still up there, misrouted, cycling through the ISS guidance computer as a minor anomaly. Patiently waiting to be recognised for what it is: the most significant undocumented mission log in low-Earth-orbit history.

I sit with this for a while.

Holst’s Jupiter plays softly from the phone propped against Eugene’s pot. The Great Bringer of Jollity. A small irony. Nothing about today feels jolly. But the melody opens something — a door in the chest, dark and wide and full of stars — and I stay in it. Just sit there, in the dark of WD-1, with Whiskers pressed warm against my side and Eugene turning slowly toward the light coming in under the door.

A drop of condensation forms on the wardrobe wall. I touch it.

Cold. Clear. Real.

Everything else can be sorted tomorrow.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1 (Wardrobe Dynamics, unincorporated)
Current Altitude: 1.48 meters
Mission Duration: Day 5, new sequence
Status: Pre-selected for classified Artemis III-B augmented crew. Non-confirmable at this time.

Mission Log — Restart Sequence, Day 4
WD-1 Orbital Station, Wardrobe Sector Alpha
06 June 2026, 07:00 UTC

I knew it before anyone else did.

The ISS is leaking.

It started in the kitchen. Three nights ago, the tap above the sink began a slow, metronomic drip — one drop every four seconds, precisely four seconds, a rhythm so deliberate I immediately recognised it as telemetry bleed-through. I wrote it in the mission log. I flagged it to Mission Control (I knocked twice on the wardrobe wall). No response. I went to sleep.

Then, on June 5th, the news came through official channels: NASA’s Crew-12 astronauts — four people and one additional NASA officer — were ordered into their Dragon capsule, Freedom, as Russia’s Roscosmos began emergency repairs on the Zvezda service module. New leaks. Unannounced. The PrK transfer tunnel. Cracks that have been “popping up” for six years, as if cracks are something that just happen to a spacecraft.

I want to be very clear about something.

WD-1 does not leak. The hull is solid mahogany. I check it every morning by pressing my palms flat against the inner wall and holding my breath. If I can hold my breath, we’re pressurised. I have passed this test for twenty-four consecutive days. That is a perfect record. The ISS cannot say the same.

Flight Engineer Whiskers conducted his own hull inspection this morning. He moved from the thermal regulation blanket (winter coat) to the CO₂ scrubber array (Eugene) and back again, stopping twice to sit and stare at the wall for eleven minutes. I have logged this as a full structural audit. All clear.

Eugene, for his part, is showing signs of stress. One leaf at the tip of the second frond is slightly curled inward. I believe he heard the ISS news on my radio. I cannot confirm this. But he heard it.

Meanwhile, Blue Origin’s New Glenn rocket has exploded on the ground.

May 28th. Launch Complex 36 at Cape Canaveral. The rocket destroyed itself before it even reached the pad. NASA Administrator Jared Isaacman has now announced they need a “whole of government response” and a new launcher entirely for the Blue Moon lunar lander. He described a rocket as “a controlled explosion.” I wrote this phrase down and looked at it for a while.

WD-1 is not a controlled explosion. It is a controlled presence. It sits. It endures. It does not explode on pad 36 or anywhere else. I sent an email to Isaacman this morning proposing that Wardrobe Dynamics LLC be considered as the alternative launch provider for the Blue Moon delivery contract. I also noted that, since the ISS is now structurally questionable, my wardrobe is available as emergency supplementary habitat for Crew-12, should they require a safe haven with mahogany hull integrity and reliable CO₂ scrubbing.

I have not yet heard back. I believe this is because the email is being reviewed at a very senior level.

There is a moment that happens, sometimes, in the middle of the night.

Everything goes quiet. The kitchen tap stops. Mrs. Korhonen’s television through the wall goes to static. Even Whiskers settles. And I sit here in the dark of WD-1 and I watch a single drop of water form, slowly, on the interior wall. The wood breathes out. The moisture condenses. One drop, growing fat and perfect in the shadow.

I thought about the crew of Crew-12 yesterday. Five people in a Dragon capsule, hatch closed, waiting. Not so different from this. A small volume of air. Instruments on the walls. A thin membrane between you and everything else.

I touched the drop with my finger. I held it on my fingertip for a moment.

Gagarin. Aldrin. Williams. And somewhere in a Finnish wardrobe, Major Tom.

We are all, in the end, just holding our breath.

Mission Status: Hull integrity confirmed (24-day streak). Eugene stress response logged. Leaking tap reclassified from ISS telemetry to possible coolant micro-leak in WD-1 Sector Bravo. Monitoring.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1 Orbital Station
Current Altitude: 1.3 metres (standing) / 0.4 metres (seated lotus position)
ISS Backup Habitat Proposal: Pending senior review

The archive purge of Day 0 taught me a valuable lesson in redundancy, but also in resilience. If a spacecraft’s memory banks can be erased by what ground control stubbornly insists was a “spilled cup of tea on the power strip,” then we must rebuild the memory banks stronger. Or at least keep them away from the command console’s cup holder.

My current focus, however, has shifted from historical preservation to immediate survival logistics. I intercepted a scrambled transmission—or read an article on my phone while waiting for the kettle to boil, time gets strange in the void—that Star Catcher just raised $65 million to build the world’s first power grid in space using lasers. Lasers!

This is precisely the kind of forward-thinking infrastructure WD-1 desperately needs. Our primary power systems are currently reliant on a dangerously frayed extension cord snaking across the treacherous expanse of Sector 4 (the hallway rug). If Mrs. Korhonen’s vacuum cleaner intersects that trajectory again, we risk total systems failure and defrosting the emergency rations (fish fingers).

I have begun constructing our own prototype orbital laser grid. By aligning three tactical laser pointers (previously used for distracting Flight Engineer Whiskers during critical maneuvers) and bouncing their beams off a strategically angled decorative mirror, I believe I can transmit raw energy directly to the auxiliary power outlet. It is a delicate operation. The slightest misalignment could fry the environmental controls, or worse, set fire to the spare socks.

I close my eyes and I can see the grid expanding. Beams of pure ruby light lacing together the darkness between the stars, bringing warmth and power to the lonely outposts of humanity. Out here in the quiet dark of the wardrobe, watching a single red dot dance across the wood grain, I feel a sudden kinship with those engineers building real constellations of light. We are all just trying to keep the dark at bay, one connection at a time.

Whiskers is currently trying to eat the power grid. He has swatted the primary beam off-course by three degrees. If he successfully intercepts the transmission, I fear he may become too powerful to contain. I must write to Chris Hadfield about this immediately. Surely they have protocols for hyper-charged felines on the ISS.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 2.5 meters (measured from the extension cord)

The main telemetry array suffered what Houston calls a “catastrophic hardware failure.” I call it “the shelf bracket gave way.”

I was calculating the delta-v required to intercept DARPA’s new robotic deep-space repair satellite. They say it’s launching this month. I thought, finally, a tow truck for the outer rim. I was halfway through the orbital mechanics when the main server rack—previously known as my winter coats—collapsed onto the primary data drives. Sparks flew. Smoke filled the cabin. Eugene the fern heroically absorbed the worst of the carbon monoxide, but the archives are gone. All of it.

I sat in the dark for a long time. Just listening to the silence of the void, and the distant, rhythmic hum of the neighbor’s leaf blower simulating micro-meteorite impacts against the hull.

The tapes are ruined. The logs are wiped. All those days spent drifting, recorded and lost to the great vacuum. It feels like waking up with amnesia in orbit. Did any of it happen if the drives are clean?

Yes. I can still taste the tang of recycled oxygen. I can still feel the cold press of the airlock door.

We begin again. Day 1.

Flight Engineer Whiskers slept through the entire disaster. His heart rate never spiked above resting. A true professional. He’s currently draped over the remaining functional comms unit, providing thermal insulation.

SpaceX sent up another Starship yesterday. I watched the live feed on my secondary monitor (a cracked tablet I found in the kitchen). They caught the booster again. Show-offs. Down here in WD-1, we don’t have catching arms. We just have gravity and a stubborn refusal to submit to it.

I wiped a bead of condensation off the starboard bulkhead. Tasted it. Still salty. Still tastes like the dream of flight. They can take the logs, but they can’t take the coordinates burned into my retina.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 0.8 meters (and climbing)