In a quiet corner of an old launch yard — where the hangar is rusty, the grass
grew back years ago and nobody launches anything anymore — one small rocket
still waits on its pad, nose pointed at the stars.

Everyone said the age of rocketeers was over. Everyone said space was for
someone else. You heard all of that, climbed into the cockpit, and lit the
engine anyway.

The first flight won't be pretty. The tank runs dry fast, the wind shoves you
around, and gravity always waits on the way home. But every flight leaves
something behind: coins fished from the clouds, gems sparkling at the edge of
space, stories about storm clouds that bite and green rings that throw you
like a slingshot. Trade it all for bigger tanks, stronger engines and stranger
machines — then climb back into the cockpit and go again.

Because the sky was never the goal. The Moon is up there at 28,000 meters.
Mars glows red a little past it. Beyond the asteroid belt, the giants are
waiting — Jupiter with its storms, Saturn with its rings — and far past them
all, tiny Pluto is keeping a light on for anyone stubborn enough to knock.

Legends say the record books end at Pluto. Legends have been wrong before.

One small rocket. The whole solar system. How far will you fly?