SHIP'S LOG · ENTRY 001 · SOL 0
SOL 12 · 0.4 AU · BEARING 112°
The yeast behaves strangely at 0.3G — each loaf emerges taller, more cathedral-like, with air pockets the size of thumbnails. The crew has taken to calling them "moon loaves." I pressed one flat for sandwich purposes and felt like a vandal destroying architecture.
SOL 47 · 2.3 AU · BEARING 047°
Found the cat again — wedged between the CO2 scrubber and the auxiliary heating coil, purring at a frequency that concerned Engineering. They've given her a title now: Chief Morale Officer. She outranks me on good days.
SOL 89 · 4.1 AU · BEARING 203°
We passed close enough to see the nucleus — a dirty snowball tumbling in silence. Someone had set out tea. We drank it watching ice sublimate into ribbons of light. The children pressed their faces against the porthole glass and fogged it with wonder.
SOL 134 · 7.8 AU · BEARING 318°
Grandmother Vasquez has sewn a patch for every AU traveled. The quilt now spans the entire commons wall — a patchwork star chart of gingham, old uniform fabric, and recycled radiation shielding that shimmers when the light catches it just so.
GREENHOUSE DECK · LEVEL 4 · HUMIDITY 72%
The instruments say it is habitable. The children say it looks like the paintings in the schoolroom. I say it looks like the feeling you get when you open the oven and the bread is perfect — golden, risen, warm. We are home again, for the first time.
SOL 291 · 12.4 AU · ARRIVAL