The astronaut removed her helmet long before mission control said it was safe. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as warning lights flashed across her visor. Every procedure she'd memorized insisted she should already be dead. Instead, she inhaled. The air tasted cool, carrying the faint scent of pine. Impossible. The planet had been scanned for decades. It was supposed to be barren rock wrapped in a poisonous atmosphere. "Commander Hayes," mission control crackled. "Seal your suit immediately." She ignored them. A breeze stirred the silver grass around her boots. Somewhere beyond the ridge, water trickled over stone. Then she heard laughter. It wasn't in her headset. It drifted across the valley like music. She climbed toward it, each step widening the distance between herself and the landing craft. At the top of the ridge stood a circle of weathered stones. They hummed softly beneath her fingertips. The laughter stopped. A voice replaced it. "Welcome back." Her stomach tightened. "I've never been here." "Haven't you?" Visions flickered through her mind—not memories exactly, but echoes. She saw generations of explorers, each arriving in different centuries, each believing they were the first. The planet hadn't hidden itself. It had hidden them from themselves. When the rescue team finally reached her hours later, they found her sitting quietly among the stones. "What did you discover?" they asked. She looked toward the endless horizon. Nothing she could measure. Nothing she could prove. Just the unsettling certainty that some places remembered visitors long after the visitors forgot the journey. In the end, the truth turned out to be much quieter than she expected.