Zoe maintained the only garden in orbit. The International Space Station was long decommissioned, replaced by the Nexus, a research outpost focused purely on sustaining life beyond Earth.
Her greenhouse module was an explosion of green life against the stark white metal of the station. She grew herbs and small vegetables, a vital source of fresh food, but also morale.
One cycle, she noticed the sweet basil was struggling. Its leaves were curling, growing pale. Every sensor read nominal; the air, water, and light were perfect.
Zoe started talking to the plant. She told it about the blue skies of Earth she missed, the feeling of real soil on her hands, the warmth of the sun. She thought she was just going space-mad.
The next day, the basil was greener.
She continued her routine, speaking to all the plants, sharing her hopes and fears with the silent greenery. They thrived. The module became the brightest, healthiest spot on the station.
The Chief Science Officer noticed. "Zoe," he said one day, looking at a particularly robust tomato plant, "your yields are 40% higher than the previous gardener's. What's your secret protocol?"
Zoe hesitated, holding a small pot of struggling rosemary. "I just... I think they need to know they're not alone. That what they do matters."
The Officer raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He left the module.
That evening, Zoe was watering the cucumbers when she heard a low hum. She looked up. The Chief Science Officer was in the corner, playing a very quiet, very bad recorder rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" to the bell peppers.
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