In orbit of the Dark Moon, the Perigeum station creaked like an old sailing ship. Fifteen-year-old Maja Halicka was cleaning the dust filter, pretending not to hear the silence. The cosmos, however, was not completely silent; tiny echoes swam in the hum of the instruments. When the radio hummed, she heard her own name, reflected and distorted by the vacuum. The clatter of pumps came from behind the wall, but the rhythm did not match the cycle. - This is Maja. Over? - she said, although the regulations suggested silence at an unknown signal. Only a fluttering sound answered, as if someone was shaking ash off the antenna above the terminator. Maja plugged the cable into the console and called up the lost mission archive. She searched for an echo-like signature; the result flashed red, almost embarrassing. Argo-7, lost twenty years ago, last contact: northern Nox crater. The report on Argo-7 mentioned an experiment with sound memory in ice. - 'Don't ask,' muttered Leon, an apprentice mechanic, appearing silently behind him. A starless night hung behind the porthole; the Dark Moon devoured the light like a well. Two pixels appeared on the radar, faint as an insect's breath on the glass. Maja recalculated the reflection angles and spat out the coordinates; they pointed to the very centre of the shadow. - Is this the ruin of the Argo-7? - Asked Leon, already donning the hard hood of his spacesuit. - 'Or someone stealing someone else's voice,' she replied, pushing the helmet over her hair. The airlock hissed, shuffling the air, and the station vibrated, as if something had clung from outside. - Can you feel it? - Leon held the railing, his eyes glowing with an unsettling glare. Green dots flashed on the warning panel, arranging themselves into familiar, childlike notes. The melody from the music box that Maja had once lost on the orbital colonies was back. A word sounded in the speakers, tentative and broken off: 'You're getting close...'. Then silence. According to the regulations, they should abort, call for surveillance and cover the station's sensors. However, Maja switched on the reconnaissance drone and opened a low-power channel. The screen lit up with an image of a crater; jagged shadows danced like feathers in a swirl. At the very bottom, something pulsed with light that did not reflect off the rocks. The drone came within touching distance, and Maja saw her own name etched on the panel. Then a shadow moved over the lens and the image suddenly went out.