We see you. We have seen you long before you called us ‘myth’. We are not hostile; we are curious. As you watch, we watch. Together, we may learn.

And somewhere beyond the stars, the pattern that called itself Y continued its silent, patient watch—now with new verses added to its eternal song.

She reached out, her gloved hand hovering just above the sphere. The moment her fingertips brushed the edge, the sphere pulsed brighter, the green turning into a warm amber, and a low tone resonated through the deck—something like a single chord struck on an ancient, resonant harp.

Cee’s overlay flickered, translating further. “ If you choose to respond, we will share knowledge. If you retreat, the signal will cease. ”

“Not a camera,” Cee replied, eyes narrowed. “A mirror. Something that reflects back what it perceives. It’s feeding on our observation.”

Jay’s hands flew over the console, pulling up the station’s archival data. “If this is Y, they’ve been watching us for a while. Every time we send a probe out past the asteroid belt, we see a blip on the edge of the sensor field. We dismissed it as noise. But now—”

Cee took a breath, feeling the weight of the decision. On one side, the unknown. On the other, a potential doorway to a form of intelligence that had been watching humanity from the shadows of space for eons. She could feel the station’s own pulse—a slow, steady beat that matched the rhythm of the sphere’s light.

“What do we do?” Graff asked, his voice barely audible.

“Dale, you see that?” Grazz muttered, his voice low, as the deck’s massive transparent dome flickered with the distant swirl of the planet below. “It’s not a glitch. It’s… it’s watching us.”

Cee’s overlay translated further, now faster, more fluid. “ We can share. We can teach you how to listen to the universe without a telescope, how to read the language of gravity, how to sense the heartbeat of a star. In return, we ask only for your stories. Your music. Your art. Your love. ”

She pressed a small, glowing button on the console labeled . The station’s internal network hummed, cataloguing the encounter for future generations. The data would be sealed behind layers of encryption, but a single line of code, a simple directive, would ensure that any future crew would be warned: Do not stare blindly at the void; listen, and the void will listen back.

Cee turned her head, the overlay on her eyes translating the faint electromagnetic tremors into a cascade of colors. A soft, pulsing violet washed over the glass—an echo of the sky outside—followed by a thin line of green that darted like a firefly across the surface of the dome. She frowned.