"The moon was never empty. We just stopped asking the right questions." — Declassified transmission, origin scrubbed

"I wasn’t born for silence. I was born to hear what the stars stopped saying." — Tara Collins, final Earth entry

Chapter One Hollow moon

The stars had always whispered to Tara Collins, even when the world fell silent.

She stood alone beneath the fading letters of “Johnson Space Center,” now little more than a sun-bleached skeleton of its former self. Most saw a dead museum—just another relic from the golden age of spaceflight. But to Tara, it was a cradle of forgotten dreams. This place had once launched people into the sky. It had once mattered.

Now, it was a shell. And like the moon above, it held its secrets close.

Wind scraped across the cracked concrete, carrying the smell of dust and rust. The world had moved on. The International Space Station had been scrapped. Human boots hadn’t touched extraterrestrial soil in over a century. Space exploration was now a sterile, drone-driven operation—remote, silent, impersonal. Safer, they said. Cheaper. Cleaner.

But not better.

Tara tilted her head back, scanning the pale Texas sky. The moon would rise soon. She waited for it like a lover left too long in the dark.

She could still remember the first time she saw it through a telescope as a child. That craggy, ancient face staring back at her. So close, so present, like it knew she was watching. Like it wanted her to come find it. She’d built her whole life around that pull—through books, simulations, volunteering at science centers. She had been too young to go when the world had still cared. And now, everyone claimed it was too late.

But she was going anyway.

Inside the museum—if anyone still called it that—the exhibits were shadows of what they once were. Outdated models, faded posters, and gift shop memorabilia covered just enough surface to satisfy casual visitors. But beneath the shell, in rooms that used to store brochures and brochures, something else was growing.

They were rebuilding NASA from the bones up.

Every bolt tightened. Every circuit re-soldered. Every flight manual memorized. It was a secret project born not out of funding or fame but of faith—faith that humanity belonged among the stars. Tara had helped lead it, fueled by a fire she couldn’t name. A need. A calling. And she wasn’t alone.

There were others. Quiet engineers. Former pilots. A tech salvager with more scars than stories. A handful of true believers who had risked everything to make this impossible dream real.

It had taken years.

Four years of backbreaking work, carefully woven lies, and late-night planning beneath flickering lights. They called themselves docents, curators, archivists—any title that kept suspicion low. Their “restoration project” earned them just enough funding and press coverage to survive. Tour groups came through twice a week, none the wiser. But beneath the clean walls and looping documentaries, they were building something meant to fly.

Something meant to leave.

And lately, they had all begun to feel the heat.

Last week, a man from some unnamed agency had stopped by. His smile was too polished, his questions too casual. He asked about fire code compliance and digital archives, but his eyes lingered on their hands—the callouses, the scrapes, the faint tan lines from goggles and gloves. No one said it, but everyone felt it:

They were being watched.

Tara hadn’t told anyone, but she’d seen him glance up toward the secured basement door—just once, but it had chilled her to the core. That door led to their lab. Their heart. If anyone went down there without clearance, it was over.

The sun had begun to dip, washing the world in bruised light. Shadows stretched across the lot like long fingers. Tara’s eyes caught on the chain-link fence lining the west perimeter—bent slightly in the corner where one of the crew slipped in late one night.

Even their entrances had to be secret.

A quiet shuffle behind her broke the moment. Belle stepped out, her expression unreadable in the dying light.

“You always this dramatic, or is it a moon phase thing?” she asked, holding out a mug of tea.

Tara managed a dry smile, taking it gratefully. “It’s not dramatic if it’s true.”

Belle rolled her eyes but stood beside her anyway, shoulder to shoulder. The air between them was warm, familiar, tinged with something unsaid.

“I hate that it’s beautiful,” Belle murmured, nodding to the eastern sky where the moon was beginning to rise. “It’s like it knows we’re watching.”

Tara's gaze didn’t waver. “It’s been waiting.”

There was silence between them for a moment—deep and reverent. The kind of silence that felt like it meant something.

From inside, the sound of a dropped wrench echoed faintly through the open bay. Tara recognized the distant cursing—Victor, their lead systems analyst. Brilliant, irritable, and always skeptical of the world outside their project.

“He’s probably elbow-deep in circuit guts again,” Belle muttered, grinning.

“Or rewiring something that wasn’t broken,” Tara said.

A shadow passed through the lit windows—Eric, moving silently between workstations, shoulders hunched in deep focus. His movements were efficient, careful. He carried a small crate of tools and what looked like a retrofitted oxygen scrubber prototype.

He didn’t speak as he passed them on the way to the storage wing. He just gave Tara a nod. Belle, too.

But his glance lingered a moment longer on Belle before he turned away.

Tara noticed. Belle didn’t.

Footsteps approached from the lot—measured, deliberate.

Sean.

He walked like someone who’d never stopped being a soldier. Even out of uniform, everything about him radiated control. He carried a clipboard, an old-fashioned watch on one wrist, and a discipline that never relaxed.

“Cooling unit’s stabilized,” he said. “Had to reroute power through Module C. It’s patched for now, but it won’t hold forever.”

Tara nodded, sipping her tea. “Nothing does.”

Sean didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened briefly—respect, maybe. Or fatigue.

“What’s the status on the secondary payload?” Belle asked.

“In position. We’ll test comms again at 0200.”

The words passed between them like code. It wasn’t safe to say too much out loud, even here. Too many ears. Too many unknowns.

Together, they turned to the sky.

The moon had risen—ghost-white and full, casting its pale light over the facility like a watchful eye. It seemed bigger tonight. Closer. Or maybe Tara was just more aware of how little time they had left before the world noticed them.

She looked at the others—Belle, with her wit and restless heart. Sean, steady and scarred. Eric, quiet and loyal. Victor, muttering in the dark, and the rest of the team behind closed doors.

They had nothing left to give but everything they were.

“I used to think it was lonely up there,” she whispered. “But now I think it’s waiting.”

No one disagreed.

Inside the hangar, machines hummed. Screens blinked. A launch window opened, just weeks away. And far below, in a chamber sealed with biometric locks, something very old and very secret sat waiting in silence.

But that was a truth for another chapter.

For now, they stood beneath the moonlight, quiet rebels chasing ghosts in the dark—