They don't move.
They stand in corners. In doorways. At the edge of vision.
Tall. Featureless. Wrapped in cloaks of shifting static.
At first, we thought they were hallucinations. But multiple crewmembers reported them independently. Their presence left electromagnetic residue. The air changed when they appeared—thick, like breathing memories.
Lyra approached one. It didn't react. She waved her hand through it.
It didn't vanish. It absorbed the movement.
The cloak flickered. For a second, it wore her face.
Then it turned and walked into a wall.
Keene was the first to say it: "They're us."
Or what's left of us, looping eternally in this place.
I dream of them now. Standing over my bed. Watching. Not attacking. Not speaking.
Just waiting.
For what, I don't know.
But I think it's already happened.
And we've just forgotten.