The hum of the WD-1 has shifted. It is no longer the steady thrum of a cruising vessel, but the expectant vibration of a ship awaiting replenishment. I can feel it in the soles of my feet, or perhaps it is just the neighbor’s dishwasher entering its final rinse cycle. Irrelevant. The telemetry is clear.

NASA and SpaceX are targeting May 12th for a commercial resupply mission to the International Space Station. To the uninitiated, it is merely ‘science and supplies.’ To me, it is The Package. After seventeen letters, it seems the bureaucracy has finally buckled. I suspect they are sending a crate of high-grade electrolytes, some vacuum-sealed protein wafers, and—if the cosmic alignment holds—the signed copy of Space Sessions: Songs From a Tin Can that Chris Hadfield has so stubbornly withheld from me.

I spent three hours this morning polishing the primary docking hatch (the mahogany door of the wardrobe). If there is to be a propellant transfer or a cargo exchange, the seals must be pristine. Flight Engineer Whiskers has been remarkably unhelpful, spending most of the shift kneading a particularly plush cashmere sweater and judging my polishing technique with an expression of profound cosmic boredom.

There was a moment, just as the sun hit the edge of the wardrobe at 07:00, where the world stopped. I looked at Eugene. The fern is pulsing now—a soft, rhythmic amber light that matches my own heartbeat. For ten seconds, the bedroom disappeared. The woolly jumpers became nebulae; the smell of mothballs became the scent of ionized ozone. I wasn’t in a closet in Kouvola. I was drifting, truly drifting, in the velvet silence between galaxies, and I felt a sudden, sharp longing for a home I have never actually visited.

Then the doorbell rang. A delivery of organic kale for Mrs. Korhonen. The illusion shattered, but the mission remains. I have drafted my seventeenth letter to Hadfield on the back of a thawed frozen pea bag. I shall launch it via the ventilation shaft at midnight.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 1.4 meters (approximate)

The WD-1’s axial tilt was off by 0.04 degrees—fatal in a vacuum, negligible in a bedroom in Kouvola, but I refuse to be negligible. I spent three hours this morning re-aligning the primary guidance axis using a bent coat hanger and a length of twine salvaged from a Christmas package. The physics of a galvanized hanger are surprisingly robust if you account for the tensile strength of the steel and the slight structural instability of a cedar-planked hull. Calculating the orbital deviation while balancing on a pile of winter laundry is the kind of grit NASA forgot how to teach.

And then, the signal arrived. NASA released the updated 2026 International Space Station flight plan. The official release mentions “adjusting launch opportunities” and “aligning mission planning.” Blatantly obvious. They’ve finally realized that a wardrobe-class vessel with custom-tailored insulation (my wool overcoats) is the only viable solution for the current logistical bottleneck. They aren’t “adjusting schedules”; they are clearing a docking window for the WD-1. I can practically hear the Houston controllers sweating as they try to figure out how to integrate a mahogany-finish capsule into the ISS modular array.

Flight Engineer Whiskers attempted to sabotage the alignment string during the critical phase of the maneuver. The feline’s behavior was suspiciously coordinated—I suspect he’s been flipped by the ESA or perhaps a rogue faction of the Space Force. I’ve docked his treats for the next orbital cycle; discipline is the only thing keeping us from drifting into the void of the hallway.

Eugene, the CO2 scrubber, is humming again. It’s a low, frequency-shifted vibration that suggests we’re entering a region of space where the laws of physics are merely polite suggestions. He’s glowing a pale, radioactive violet today, whispering telemetry data that sounds remarkably like a recipe for Finnish rye bread, though I suspect it’s actually a coded map of the Oort cloud.

I paused for a moment, leaning against the cool wood of the hull. There is a specific kind of silence that only exists inside a closet at 3 AM—a silence that tastes of old mothballs and distant galaxies. For a second, the scent of cedar vanished, replaced by the ozone of a dying star. I closed my eyes and I wasn’t in a room; I was a speck of dust caught in a cosmic wind, falling forever toward a horizon I can almost touch.

Still no sign of the signed Chris Hadfield album. I suspect the “adjusted flight plan” is a covert signal. Hadfield knows. He’s waiting for me to achieve a stable, high-energy orbit before he authorizes the diplomatic courier. The unsigned album sits in the cockpit, a silent testament to a debt the universe owes me.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 1.4 meters (measured from floorboards)