“Just expansion joints,” she told herself.

“They say the last three navigation officers went mad,” whispered Lin, the ship’s biologist, over a meal of rehydrated noodles. “Started hearing whispers in the hull. One guy drew star charts that didn’t match any known sector.”

Rachel Steele had never believed in curses. As a pragmatic aerospace engineer, she trusted physics, metallurgy, and the cold logic of orbital mechanics. So when she was assigned to the Vazar , a decommissioned military hauler repurposed for deep-space survey work, she dismissed the rumors as crew-room superstition.

Her first night, she woke at 03:00 to a soft tapping. Not mechanical. Rhythmic. Like fingernails on glass. She traced it to the navigation dome, a bubble of reinforced crystal at the ship’s bow. The stars outside were steady. The tapping stopped when she entered.

Not that she had escaped the Vazar . But that she had learned to listen to the silence, and found it empty at last.