Aria,
I think I love you.
—Naull
I bring my hand to my mouth. The screen’s pale blue light ghosting his words. My throat tightens.
I delete the message.
Then I undo the delete.
Then I close the message again without sending.
My fingers hover above the keys. I consider everything Ishouldsay. Everything I can’t. I taste honey-tea still in my mouth from earlier. The warmth of Garma’s cheek pressed against mine. The memory of Naull’s grip on my harness in the wreck, the shock of his lips on mine in the zero-G vault. I close my eyes and press them hard. I don’t want the tears, not yet.
I lean back. The lamp casts shadows on the wall—shapes of possibility and regret. I wrap my arms around myself. I canfeel the blanket of cold gathering outside my window, the wind rising. A shudder in the glass.
I hear a phone buzz on the table behind me. I don’t reach for it. I’m not ready.
Instead, I open a folder marked “MELD CORE – WHISPER”. I scroll through diagrams of the Meld neural lattice, core signatures, Whisper-Core frequency reads. I remember the surge. The static in Garma’s monitor. The baby’s eyes aglow golden.
I lean forward. I place my palm flat on the desk. The wood is smooth, cool. I imagine the Meld core humming beneath my palm, like it once hummed between Naull and me. A vibration I thought I had lost. But haven’t.
My chair creaks. I glance out the window. Rain has started again. Light taps against the pane, each drop a tiny percussion. I smell wet stone, ozone from neon signs outside, the city’s breathing.
The message in my heart beats louder. I didn’t send it. I can’t yet. Not until he understands. Not until he knowswhyI survived. Not until he knowswhatI carried alone while he was “gone.”
I open the message again. I type:
Naull,
I saw you. Or I sawhim.
We’re tangled in something bigger than either of us.
Aria.
And then I backspace it. Delete. Save as draft. Close the laptop.
I rise and walk the length of the flat to the nursery door. I push it open. Garma sleeps in the high-chair turned crib conversion—blanket tucked under his chin. His hair curls like I imagined mine would. His small chest rises in soft rhythm. I lean in and kiss the top of his head. He murmurs and twists towardme. I pull the blanket up and brush a finger along his cheek. His skin is warm. I smell baby powder and something else—metallic, electric. I don’t move from standing. I don’t touch him yet beyond that light brush.
I whisper: “One day you’ll ask me where your father is.” The words come out quiet, barely louder than the wind outside. I wait. No answer. The night ticks on.
“Until then,” I say softly, “I’ll guard you.”
I step back. Leave the door ajar. The hallway beyond is dark. I don’t turn the light on. I walk back to the desk.
The rain increases. The lamp reflection jumps in the glass behind me like a ghost chasing me. I can feel the weight of everything now: the baby, the secret signal, the man who walked through that library and slapped me and claimed our son without permission—but with truth.
I sit. I open the message again. I don’t edit it. I watch the cursor blink. The wind howls. The window rattles.
I think of duty. Of Spectra. Of what’s coming.
And I know: sending that message won’t fix it.
But not sending it might doom us all.
I lean into the desk, rest my forehead on the surface. The tea mug still sits beside the laptop. Cold now. I pick it up, feel the condensation on my fingers. I take a sip—foam has long since gone. It tastes of cedar and ash now. I swallow.
