Garma squirms. He points. “Mama!” he says, excited.
I smile, stand, lift him into my arms. The wood floor cool under my socks. I turn to Naull. “Do you… want to walk him to the park?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah.”
We step outside. The cold air hits like a slap. I pull the coat collar up. Garma babbles in my arms. Naull walks beside us. The snap of his boots on wet sidewalk matches my heartbeat.
We reach the park gate—iron arches dripping. I let Garma down onto the grass. He runs a few steps, stops, turns back and waves. Naull watches him, then looks at me.
“You didn’t say,” he says.
“Say what?” I ask. I feel the fear drip into my spine.
“Why,” he whispers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I swallow. I glimpse Garma, crouching to touch a puddle. His fingers ripple water. I hear the splash faint.
“I didn’t want to know,” I say. “Not then. Not while you were… gone. I thought if I found answers I’d stop waiting. And waiting was all I had.”
He steps closer. Rain patters through the leaves. I smell wet grass, cold metal from the park bench, damp concrete from the path. He reaches out, touches the side of my neck. “And now?”
“Now,” I say softly. “I don’t know.” My voice cracks. “Now I’m just trying not to lose him again.”
His eyes flash. “He didn’t lose you.” He touches Garma’s shoulder. The baby looks up at him like he knows him. I see it in Garma’s eyes: recognition. Something ancient and fierce.
“You didn’t fight harder,” she says. My lips stop moving.
“No,” I say under my breath. “But I’m fighting now.”
The air shifts. Something in the park changes. The umbrella of storm clouds overhead seems to pulse. I glance at Naull. He’s looking at me, wet hair clinging to his forehead, eyes dark.
“I waited for you,” I whisper.
He nods. “And I waited for you.”
I take Garma’s hand. His grip is strong. Too strong for a toddler. I pull him back up and hold him.
“Executives are calling,” I say, stepping toward the bench. “We’ll need a full debrief on Nexxus. If the signal… if you’re right…”
“What if I’m not?” he murmurs.
“We’ll still need to be ready,” I reply. “For both of us.”
He smiles quickly, wistfully. Then he holds my hand. My fingers tangle with his.
We sit. Garma curls between us on the bench. Rain falls. Night creeps in.
She watches us. He watches me. I watch the player pieces shift.
And somewhere behind the static and the lullaby hum of the city, I feel the signal pulse again.
The hallway light fades to amber as I slip into the flat after Garma’s bedtime. His soft snore comes from the nursery like a lullaby, low and steady—not like the alarms on Rhavadaz, notlike the Forge alarms of a broken mech, just soft and alive. When I close the door I don’t turn on the main light. The desk lamp’s glow is enough. It casts a circle of warmth in the darkness, enough so I can see the keys of my old interface rig. The desk smells faintly of solder-fume and old coffee. I inhale it and for a moment I’m back in the lab bay, circuits humming.
Naull’s room is directly across the courtyard. I can see the window from here: a pale square of light flickers—his silhouette passes behind it. It’s him. Ifeelit. As though the broken Meld is still a thread between us, vibrating through the city air. The wind rises outside, tapping the glass, hissing like it has a message. Cold. Familiar. Like Rhavadaz again.
I sit at the desk anyway. I open the laptop. Files flicker. The desktop is cluttered: mission logs, Meld maps, telemetry from the Alpha-Titan strike. A folder titled “LAST MESSAGE – UNSENT” taunts me. I hover over it. The cursor blinks. I click in.
The message reads:
