Claire sat in the silence of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, staring at screens where telemetry from the MAVEN satellite still flickered. The data was still coming. For now. But she knew: these were the final hours. The signal would fade, like the voices of loved ones just before you exit the coverage zone. Then—silence. Three weeks ago, the news had announced that Congress, despite scientists’ protests, had approved the budget cutting NASA's science programs nearly in half. Rockets would fly to the Moon, but without science. No more missions to Jupiter’s moons, no more data from the Martian atmosphere, no new discoveries. Only manned flights and military satellites. For Claire, it felt like the end of the world. She remembered writing to NASA at age 11, asking to be taken to Mars, and receiving a postcard signed by a Curiosity mission engineer. It still hung above her desk. Then came engineering school, an internship, her first launch, the night MAVEN entered orbit. That was her satellite. Her space. And now—the end. Claire walked through the empty corridor. Once filled with laughter, debates, and atmospheric vortex videos from Jupiter, it was silent now. Half her colleagues had left. Some to universities. Some to startups. Some just gave up. “Still here?” asked a voice behind her. It was James, a technician who had worked at JPL for over thirty years. His eyes were tired but determined. “Can’t leave without saying goodbye to MAVEN,” Claire replied. He nodded. Together they returned to the command center and turned on the monitor. One last greeting appeared on the screen—data on hydrogen levels in Mars’ upper atmosphere. The final data. Then silence. The screen froze. Claire looked at James. “It’s gone,” she whispered. They sat in silence. Then Claire stood up, wiped her eyes, and said, “We’re not finished. We’re just starting over.” James smiled. A new path lay ahead. No budget. No guarantees. But faith. And memory of MAVEN.