I see my body at the end of the tunnel. She's hunched over, her back to me, arms slack on either side, palms up in the ash. I approach slowly. She's dead but that's no reason to spook her.

I step over the remains of the slipsuit she wore. She must have torn it all off because of the heat. It's smothering in these tunnels. The suit is punctured in places anyway. The fungus would have already started spreading inside.

Passing by the helmet, I can make out her name on its dusty collar. Azura. My name. Is Phospheranto still lingering in there or has the vestige of him gone quiet like it has inside my own? Is this when I start taking off my suit? The fungus has already started spreading inside. The heat is overwhelming. I might as well.

In front of my body, spread out in the ash like a fortuneteller's reading, the logs of the 25th Crossing. My reports, daguerreotypes, memospores, sketches, suit diagnostics, the letter I never finished, my credentials, the IGS letters of safe conduct. I'm leaving these for the next person. It's important that they're organized. Everything about the mission, annotated. They'll find it. I left markers. I failed, but I can make it so that they don't have to.

Maybe that's them walking up behind me. I'd check but it's so hard to move when you're dead. I can hear them unzipping their slipsuit, tossing their helmet. That's an insane thing to do. I want to tell myself to stop.