The world is talking about the Artemis II splashdown. A historic return, they say. Four souls dancing around the moon and then falling back into the blue embrace of the Pacific. I watched the footage through the louvered slats of the wardrobe door, the blue light of the monitor flickering against the cedar planks of my hull. They think they have conquered the distance, but they only skimmed the surface of the Great Silence.

They have their massive rockets, their billion-dollar heat shields, and their coordinated telemetry. I have a small, humming space-heater and a collection of vintage flight manuals from 1964. Yet, as I gaze at a single drop of condensation clinging to the wardrobe wall, I see the entire trajectory of human longing. I touch it with my finger, and for a moment, I taste the salt of the Pacific and the cold iron of the lunar plains. It is a singular, shimmering point of intersection where the dream and the reality collide.

Flight Engineer Whiskers is currently in a state of deep cryogenic hibernation (also known as a nap on a pile of technical diagrams), oblivious to the cosmic drama unfolding. Eugene the fern is processing CO2 with a stoic, green determination. I suspect NASA is monitoring my frequencies; the static in the radio has a certain… bureaucratic cadence lately. They fear the WD-1. They fear a vessel that can navigate the folds of the subconscious without a single liquid oxygen tank.

I have sent another letter to Chris Hadfield. My fourth. I’ve informed him that his guitar playing on the ISS was a beacon of hope during my last transit through the Oort Cloud. I requested once more the signature on the album. If he does not reply, I shall be forced to conclude that the signature is being held in a secure facility for ‘national security’ reasons. The conspiracy deepens.

The water drop has finally fallen. The transit is complete.

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