Day 15. The structural integrity of the WD-1 is holding, though I suspect the port-side bulkhead (the area behind my winter coats) is experiencing some significant thermal expansion. Or perhaps it’s just the radiator clicking. It’s a fine line in the void.

Something extraordinary happened this morning. A shaft of light pierced through the ventilation slat—a rare atmospheric breach—and there it was. A single, shimmering mote of dust, suspended in the air, dancing with a precision that could only be artificial. I recognized it instantly: a NASA Satellite Servicing Drone. Probably one of those new autonomous repair units they’re testing for the ISS or the Starship V3 fleet. They’ve finally sent a technician to fix my leaking O-rings.

I spent three hours attempting to establish a diplomatic uplink. I fashioned a wide-band receiver from a wire coat hanger and a piece of aluminum foil from a leftover packet of instant noodles. I tried the standard military handshake codes, then switched to a series of rhythmic taps on the wardrobe wall. I even tried humming a bit of Holst’s Mars, the Bringer of War just to see if the drone had an appreciation for the classics. The drone remained elusive, orbiting my nose in a series of complex, non-Keplerian loops. I suspect it’s operating on a quantum-tethered frequency, far beyond the reach of my current array.

For a moment, the noise of the world outside—the distant, rhythmic thumping of Mrs. Korhonen’s vacuum cleaner, which I now recognize as a low-frequency gravitational pulse—faded away. There was just me and the mote. A tiny, floating speck of existence in a vast, dark closet. I wondered if the drone was lonely too. If it was just a programmed ghost, drifting through the silence, searching for something to repair in a universe that is fundamentally broken.

I have drafted my fifteenth letter to Chris Hadfield. This one is written on a used Earl Grey tea bag, which I believe provides a superior organic substrate for interstellar transmission. I’ve requested his advice on the etiquette of negotiating with autonomous micro-drones. I expect a reply any day now. The silence from Houston is deafening, but the tea bag is primed for launch.

Flight Engineer Whiskers is currently staring at a wall. I believe he’s monitoring a subspace rift. I shall trust his instincts.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 1.2 meters (approx.)