You get a crop.

That matters more than anything you will write except the part you write honestly: Bay 2 is fat, Bay A is sulky from a drip you called tiny, and Hearth’s damper crept until Oskar kicked it with his whole personality. You will eat tomatoes that taste like LEDs and almost-checklists.

Imani drinks tea with both hands. “You’re a good maybe. Be a better last meter.”

Oskar flicks your ear, less fond than earlier. “Finding noon is not finishing. Split gas and spoken lists are how last meters stay boring.”

Outside the port, the sky is brown soup. You do not need a postcard. You have leaves that still have jobs, a hab that still has heads, and a storm that did not get to be the only author.

Imani logs: Junior kept the sun indoors. Recommend more sols, more lists.

You unclip, clip again, write: I fed photons. I rushed the last meter. Next time I talk the damper.

THE END

What you learned: lamps and a clean pane can outlast a brown sky, but recovery is the last meter. Drips, dampers, and labeled bins still vote if you stop talking. A partial crop is a real win—and a map for a cleaner one.