I wake up 1.2 billion kilometres away from Earth . The first thing I do is to check the time, even though I know that wouldn't work the same way any more. Then I get up to face my new routine. It is my first day at the Enceladus Science and Technology Institute near Saturn, and I already have too much to do.

    After I finish up my allotted breakfast, I approach my new office. It's located on the 10th floor of the botanical wing, tucked away in one of the most secluded sunny spots in the building. I tap my pass card on the access strip and survey it for the first time. 

    A worktable wraps around the semi-circle-shaped room. There are plots of land covering the middle of the ground. Tall cabinets containing equipment and seeds with a fridge flank the door against the only flat wall in the room. The transparent dome enveloping our colony is barely visible from the greenhouse-style roof, providing sunlight while maintaining a livable atmosphere. I think about the labs I worked at while on Earth. This one’s not half bad.

    I find myself hesitating at the edge of the room, wondering where I should start. I know the exact things I have to do, and yet… It’s hard to begin, knowing it could be a fruitless endeavour. The environment seems sufficient, and more importantly similar enough to Earth for plants to thrive, but I am unsure how the intricacies of cultivating plants would work out. In addition, there’s the issue of water to think about. Water is measured out carefully and its usage is strictly monitored for nonessential tasks: anything not directly sustaining worker lives. After all, it's hard to access, locked under the moon's icy oceans. A sophisticated extraction system has been put in place to pipe water into the colony. Drinking water goes through several rounds of vigorous purification. While my work involves plants, it does not fall under agriculture. I begin the planning stage with this consideration in mind. I will need to be precise with my designated water ration or risk wasting resources.

    Lunchtime. It's always the same: get the pre-proportioned meal, sit down among sparse groups of people, names, faces, job positions. I've never been that good at small talk, but my skills are passable. Still, it's hard not to feel detached from all these people, swamped with work and barely any time for anything else. After several days, I’m sick of it. So the next lunch, I turn around and strike up a conversation with someone in the queue.

    ‘I'm Soo Young’, she says. ‘New recruit at the microbiology department. What about you?’

    I start to answer, but she cuts in. ‘Wait, let me guess. Marine biology?’

    I smile at her. ‘It's not that far off. You got the discipline right.’

    ‘Hmm. Do you work with animals?’ I laugh this time. ‘Nope, my subjects don't move. Botanist. I'm Kate. Nice to meet you.’ We end up having our meals together.

    I feel a little more upbeat after the first proper conversation, but the prospect of work still seems daunting. Here, botany is so standardised and according to procedure. Sketching out my ideas next to my calculations, my mind drifts to memories of my mother, teaching me to pick fruits at the perfect ripeness. ‘It can be quite scientific, but sometimes you have to rely on your instincts.’ As I reflect on it, I realise how difficult I find it to move past my comfort zone. Even now, as far as humanly possible from home, I fall back on familiarity. Of course, working within the parameters of the unfamiliar would be more rigid.

    I pause. My hand starts to sketch out a centrepiece, a small section with spring in mind. Perhaps incorporating the two aspects would balance things out? 

    The next time I talk to Soo Young, I have good news. 

    ‘Sunflowers appear to like this place. Pretty ironic for an icy hellscape, huh?’ Her eyes widen in surprise. ‘Really? You have to show me when they’re done,’ she insists. I agree on the condition she shares something she’s working on with me as well.

    In 2 weeks’ time, much of the semicircle resembles a thriving nursery. Peonies and lilacs grow near my test batch of sunflowers. Nothing has flowered yet, but I feel optimistic. Rows of corn, wheat, and other crops surround the flowering plants. Strangely enough, this odd mixture feels perfectly normal to me. All this feels like a proper, thriving experiment.

    One afternoon, I check the weekly digital notices for the botany wing. There is a message from management about major water maintenance works for the next month, throughout all the insulated buildings. Standard procedure, keep work going, there shouldn’t be much interference. Sounds good to me.

    I met with Soo Young for an evening walk a couple of days later. She’s in the middle of telling me about abnormal bacteria growth rates when there’s a sudden announcement blaring through the hallways.

    ‘There is currently a water distribution malfunction. Please remain calm and stay in your quarters. This issue will be resolved soon. Entry to nonessential areas is prohibited during this time.’

    My stomach drops and I feel sick. The auto sprinkler systems won’t work without water. The heating system won’t work without water. My work does not fall under essential areas. A sense of utter dread overwhelms me as I don’t know how long my plants will hold out in the cold.

    I distract myself. ‘Microbiology falls under essential departments, right?’ Soo Young confirms it. ‘Yup, thank goodness…’ she says, then trails off. ‘What about botany?’ The look on my face hides nothing. ‘Oh, Kate. I'm so sorry.’

    The next few days are a flurry of confusion and mild panic as normally put-together academics worry about lost data and work. I hole up in my quarters, drifting and making overambitious plans to save whatever is left of my work. There is a strong feeling of loss I just can't shake, waiting for me beyond that door. Soo Young offers to help me take a look when the lockdown is over.

    I thank her but decide I have to do this myself. It's just like ripping off a band-aid, I tell myself as I approach my office. Painful but quick. I already know what's going to happen.

    I remind myself to breathe. In and out. As if I was still on earth. As if there was no artificial atmosphere, just fresh air and endless open sky.

    It doesn't make me feel any better. It doesn't matter. I steel my nerves and open the door. It feels like walking into a funeral.

    I refuse to open my eyes - until I catch a whiff of some sweet scent, floating in the air.

Report: 10th floor botanical lab status, post water distribution malfunction.

Despite the complete lack of water, the plants have been able to hang onto life. Based on my observations, they entered into a suspended animation state where only base functions are performed in order to stay alive. Upon further inspection, I have discovered that microorganisms, likely originating from the seas within the moon's surface, have assimilated with the plant cells of almost every single species of plant that was being cultivated. It is most probable that the presence of these organisms helped the plants to slow down their biological processes. Further research is required to understand the nature of this newly acquired state, as it could indicate great potential for the survival of plants on Enceladus.