Some nights I wonder why I keep tending this archive. No one assigned me to it. No one would notice if I stopped.

But when I walk through the quiet directories and see the small, steady signs that the ship is still alive in its own way, something in me settles.

Maintenance isn’t heroism. It’s a form of remembering. A refusal to let a thing slip into the dark just because no one asked it to shine.

I don’t think of myself as the owner of the archive.

That word feels wrong.

Owner implies control. Authority. Final say.

What I am is closer to a caretaker.

I check the lights. I write things down. I notice when something shifts, even if I don’t understand why.

The ship doesn’t need a captain. It needs someone who shows up.