Sleep eluded me. I know what waited for me when I closed my eyes and so like two unwilling dance partners, we evaded one another. After hours of staring at the empty ceiling, I quit the dance and left my quarters, letting my steps take me where they will.

I found myself in the garden. Last place I wanted to be, but maybe I wanted to convince myself my dreams are merely manifestations of a desire to see the world we left behind. I don't expect to find Cass there, sorting through the catalogs of DNA sequences at the base of the great tree.

She looks ethereal, her messy hair spilling down her back in a riot of curls, golden, like a story book princess. A frown creased her brow as she sorted through the data logs with the barest brush of her fingers. She startled, noticing me at last. A testament to how absorbed she was in her task. I have never snuck up on her before.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

"Oh," she said, "I usually only take four or five hours a night. Not quite time for bed yet."

I don't know what to say to that. Was it really so intensive to work in the garden? The rest of the crew spent a solid twelve hours in their quarters, sleeping half their time away. At least, I used to spend my time sleeping.

"What are you looking at?"

Cass didn't answer immediately, staring at the information in front of her with a single minded concentration. "Did you know there is human DNA stored in the tree as well?"

I sighed, leaning against the smooth bark. "Someone didn't pay attention in class," I said, smiling at her. "Remember, Eden told us they took samples from as many people as possible before leaving Earth. I guess you could call it a hopeful memento, hoping their DNA would be put to use on a new world."

"I don't see why not," mused Cass. "They planned to clone animals from the DNA stores, why not people."

"Vessels for all that floating soul energy, right?"

She made a face at me. "You may scoff at my theory, but there is credence for it." She squinted at the screen. "That's odd."

"What is?" I leaned in mildly interested.

"This row is empty."

I shrugged. "So, they skipped a row in their hurry to pack up. It happens."

"But there are names here. Where did the DNA go?"

"Maybe it's a misprint?"

'Cassiopeia, it is time for your evening rest cycle.'

Both of us jumped, as if we'd been caught doing wrong. Neither of us heard Eden approach. Cass shook herself, closing up the databanks.

"You heard mama Eden, you should get off to bed yourself," said Cass, nudging my shoulder.

'I agree, Lyra, your body requires rest,' said Eden. If I didn't know better, she almost sounded a tad reproachful.

"I will, I will," I said, waving them both off as I left. I could sense Eden watching my departure but I was not ready to rest yet.

I made my way to the galley, hoping the drone of the machines would help quiet my mind.

The corridor to the galley was filled with storage rooms, many empty, others containing personal effects of the past crew and sleepers. Normally, I passed by without second thought or incident. It was only because I was so wired by lack of sleep I caught the sound at all, the dull thump, muffled behind one of the doors. I wasn't sure which one it was. One opened to containers of vacuum wrapped personal effects. Another to dehydrated packets of emergency food rations. The third opened to the musty scent of old books.

It was a tease of memory I wasn't sure I possessed until the moment the smell hit my nose. Where did such a memory come from?

The light flickered on as I entered, revealing piles and piles of dusty books, stacked in haphazard piles on the shelving, without rhyme or reason. Everything on this ship was organized. Down to the seasoning packets in the mess hall. What was this messy place?

My fingers ran along the spines, the lettering still readable through the cracks and creases of age. Treasure Island. Robinson Crusoe. 2001: A Space Odyssey. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. The Man in the High Castle. Stories from a world long gone, all carefully bound in hard back volumes. I decided to take one or two with me back to my quarters when my foot bumped against something on the floor. I looked down at the leather bound journal, identical to my own. My fingers were reaching for it before I consciously decided to. Wondering where it came from, I glanced up to find stacks of them stuffed beneath the shelf. Now I know where to go to replace mine when the pages run out. I smile to myself, flipping the journal open.

The smile drained from my face. Not a replacement. These pages were full, overflowing with scribbles. I trace the grooves and bumps of the lettering, the scrawled words trying to tell me a secret I can't understand.

The writing was mine.

I dropped the journal as if it bit me, snatching another from the shelf, holding my breath as I open it. My handwriting filled this one as well. I reached for another, my hand shaking. Full. Another. Full.

In minutes I am surrounded by a pile of scattered journals. The writing mocked me. They were all full. Every single one, and I don't remember writing in any of them. My body won't stop shivering. What is happening? What does it mean?

I can't stay here. I know this. I don't want to be found here. Not by the others, especially not by Eden. I don't know what I would tell the crew if they found me here, and I don't want to hear what Eden will tell me. Because I know one thing. There was a catalog of everything on this ship. She would know these journals were here. The question was why hide them, or was this all a dream induced by lack of rest?

I forced myself to stack the journals back on the shelf, tucking a handful under my arm to spirit back to my quarters. My journey through the halls was one of panic, wondering which corner I'll turn to find Eden waiting. What did I write in these journals? Why didn't I remember writing in them? There were so many. Why were they there? Why hold on to such an archaic keepsake?

I didn't have the answers.

Once I reached my quarters, I locked myself in, inputting a voice authorization from me to open the door. I took three journals from the room, laying them across my bed, cover to cover. Identical.

I opened the first one and began to read, reading some pages over and over. There were obvious signs of age to the pages. Some of the lettering had faded from the yellowed paper. They had a thin, fragile quality to them.

I eased the journal shut, opening the next. Then the third.

The contents were much the same. In fact, a side by side comparison made me realize the wording was as identical as the journals themselves.

My mind blurred with the information, unable to process what I read. Each journal was a chronicle of my dreams. Identical entries to the one I kept beside my bed.

It was beyond unsettling. I nibbled my thumb, staring at the innocuous volumes. Plain from the outside. How could I not remember writing them? It was more than that. The first journal bothered me the most. The more I stared at it, the harder I bit at my thumb. Maybe if I drew blood I would wake up.

The journal was old, very old. I couldn't shake the thought it was far older than me.