U-7 is home. And so, briefly, are you.
You drive your own car back down the same road. The sky is turning violet. Somewhere, a radio crackles to life for just a second—a song with no name, a hum with no singer. drive-u-7-home
The home in question is a shed behind a house with peeling blue paint. Inside, a workbench holds a half-drawn schematic, a cold cup of coffee, and a photograph of a younger person holding a smaller, cruder U-1. That person is gone. Not dead—just relocated to a city that has no room for rovers that dream in analog. They left instructions: “If it ever comes back, park it facing east. It likes sunrises.” U-7 is home