At 23:47, Aaron saw it first. A clean pulse rising from a quiet patch of sky near Kepler-186 — six identical peaks marching across his oscilloscope, exactly eleven minutes apart. He turned to Reyes without speaking. Reyes finished his coffee, leaned over, watched the waveform for half a minute, and then said, "Record."
Aaron hit RECORD. The pulse vanished.
Not faded — vanished. The trace went flat the moment the indicator lit. He stopped the recording. Three minutes later, the pulse returned. The same rhythm. The same patch of sky.
"Try again," Reyes said.
Aaron tried again. Same result. RECORD light on — silence. RECORD light off — pulse.
They sat in the cold green glow of the monitors for a minute. The wind outside the hut hissed against the metal.
Reyes opened the field logbook on the desk between them — the one Mia had sent him from California when she retired, the one her grandfather had kept in 1987. He turned to a page he had read a dozen times. Aaron looked over his shoulder. The handwriting was careful, mechanical:
"She does not know yet. Tell her, gently, that she will. The watch she will bring me has no fault — only that it has been wound the wrong way for a very long time."
Aaron read the line twice. He looked back at his screen. The pulse was still there, six clean peaks, oblivious.
"It does not want to be recorded," Reyes said quietly. He was not asking.
Aaron did not answer. He was trying to remember whether the watchmaker had been talking about a watch, or about something else, all those years ago — and whether the difference mattered. He reached for his pen and opened a fresh page of the logbook.
The pulse was still there at 00:14 when he started writing.