The crew work in tethered routines, hands in sealed experiment boxes and tools drifting in microgravity, as they continue their fourth waking orbit. As their track slides west with Earth’s rotation, they and the strengthening Western Pacific typhoon move toward Malaysia and the Philippines.

Seeing the storm, they stop work and crowd the windows with cameras. The typhoon fills the view—an unbroken spinning cloud deck with a deep “well” at its center—while, below, evacuation warnings spread across the Philippines and the smallest eastern islands face the worst of it.

Pietro’s thoughts fix on a particular fisherman he once met on a diving trip with his wife. Pietro imagines the man’s dilemma: the urge to protect what little remains after repeated storms, the impossibility of “fleeing” when home and life cannot be moved, and the preciousness of a single photograph Pietro took of the fisherman’s family.

The station approaches the Terminator, the hard line of day and night cutting Papua New Guinea. They pass island chains and the darkening Pacific, with Australia’s cities briefly stitched in light and New Zealand flashing by before the southern seas give way to Antarctica’s short, steep night.

At an Antarctic research base, biologists waiting for Arctic terns step outside into a ring of green and red as aurora builds. From orbit, Roman spots what he sensed was there and calls Nell to the dome; together they watch the aurora surge into rippling curtains and towering columns that seem to detonate up toward magenta.

Shaun, Chie, Anton, and Pietro join from their modules, all six drawn to the spectacle as the orbit turns north. The towers of light collapse and fade behind them, leaving the crew with a shared, childlike awe and an unspoken command to remember.