I smile despite myself.
I glance at Aria.
“I think… we need to talk,” I say.
She nods. The silence is thick and full of storms.
I carry Garma out into the dawn light. Rain still falls. The world is wet and obedient. I walk and the boy tugs gently at my finger. His eyes shining. I walk and I know: this isn’t just about machines or melding anymore. It’s about family.
And the bond that nearly died inside me needs resuscitation.
CHAPTER 25
ARIA
In the apartment, silence is a thin shape around me. Garma’s cry rips through it.
Wild. Uncontainable.
I dash to the nursery. The door slams open. The smell of baby-powder and warm tears, the concrete underfoot cold, the blanket twisted half-off the crib rail.
Garma’s tears glint in the lamp-light. He reaches out.
I hold him. His sobs press into my chest. My arms shake. I taste salt on his cheek.
“Shh…” I murmur. “It’s okay.”
My comm device sparks. The little red light flickers. My Meld band lies on the desk. A tiny crack spirals through the casing. I pick it up. Cold. Dead.
In the lab adjacent I race the corridor. The air smells of burnt circuitry. The node on the console is shattered. Blue glass and sparking wires pooled around the base.
My hands move without me. I shut down systems. I breathe.
The link is broken.
The Meld is gone.
And so maybe is everything else.
Later, I sit on the couch clutching Garma. The city outside presses in through the rain-streaked window. I press my cheek against his hair. I think about the lie I told. About the weight I carried. About how I told him he didn’t need to ask—and then asked anyway.
Naull walks in later. Door closes. I don’t look up.
He stands a second and says:
“Tell me.”
I exhale.
“I’m sorry.”
He nods once, quietly. Doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t forgive.
He just stands there.
And I know.
The bridge is not just cracked.
