Laika

They called it a seat, but it was a cradle of fire— metal-wrapped, bolted shut, no window, just the hum of wires and the memory of old Moscow snow still clinging to your pads. They fed you well and fastened you in with practiced hands that trembled only later. You blinked once— trusting, calm— a good girl ascending where no stray should go. The capsule ticked like a settling house— soft clicks and mechanical sighs, a shifting weight. You floated slightly, snout twitching for air, wrapped in the smell of aluminum and heat, no wind, no scent of rain, no footsteps coming— only the pulse of Earth receding. Your breath grew fast, then faster still— in a cage of heat. The tether drew tight, your heart raced wild— then slowed, then stopped. The straps dissolved as your soul slipped free— a wisp of fur, a flicker of light curling through circuits into the stars— and no one called your name. They never brought you home, but I see you sometimes— a pale arc before dawn, falling neither fast nor slow, the ghost of a girl who once chased shadows beneath the rusted cars of Moscow.