In 1997, Elias Moon was the image restorer aboard Relay Nine — the quiet technician who rescued family videos, pirate radio and unfinished songs from damaged satellites. He wore a beanie beneath his headset, a small cross in one ear, and kept every dead phone because, in his words, “silence is only a signal waiting for power.”

Then the far side went dark. A meteor shower split his visor and erased the station’s return coordinates. The emergency terminal fused into the helmet to keep his nervous system awake. It saved his life, but replaced his face with a screen that could only display whatever signal he was thinking about.

Years later, Earth received packages stamped MOON — AGENCY UNKNOWN. The postal error became his name. Moon Agency was not a company. It was Elias, still sorting the universe’s lost messages from a room nobody could locate.

The image looks worn because it is not a photograph. His CRT rebuilds him one phosphor dot too late: ivory from lunar dust, amber from the last lamp on Relay Nine, black from the silence around it. Every scratch is a missing second. Every icon is a voice he once saved.