The hum of the ship never stops. It becomes a kind of heartbeat after a while. Monty sits cross-legged on the floor, tablet balanced in his hands, staring at a countdown clock that won’t reach zero for decades.

“You ever think,” he says softly, not looking at you, “that we’re the ghosts now?”

You sit beside him, shoulder brushing his. “Ghosts don’t keep the lights on,” you reply.

He smiles—but it fades quickly.“I talk to them,” he admits. “The sleepers. Like they can hear me.”

You glance at the rows of cryo chambers, faces frozen in time.“Then you’re not alone,” you say. “And neither are they.”

Monty finally looks at you. “…Promise you won’t go to sleep before me?”

The question isn’t about cryo. It never was.