I close my eyes, breathe deep. The scent of the lake clings to everything—salty, strange, like a memory I haven’t earned yet.
Then I press record.
“My name doesn’t matter. My face doesn’t matter. Only the truth does.
“And here it is.
“I was a voice once. Not a soldier. Not a hero. Just a woman with a camera, asking questions the galaxy didn’t want answered.
“Then the war came. And suddenly, questions weren’t enough. Silence became dangerous. Secrets became fatal.
“I became something else. A fugitive. A fighter. A mother.
“I have lived in the dark. Hidden behind walls and false names. I’ve held my daughter while the ceiling shook from orbital fire. I’ve kissed the man I love while knowing we might not wake up.
“I have survived.
“But survival isn’t the same as living.
“I was asked to speak about truth, survival, and freedom. So here’s mine:
“Truth is fire. It’s dangerous. It burns. But it also lights the way.
“Survival is breathing through the pain. It's holding on when you’re too tired to stand.
“And freedom… freedom is messy. It’s not medals or broadcasts or parades. It’s your child laughing in sunlight. It’s choosing peace when your blood still remembers war.
“Sometimes the galaxy forgets we’re people.
“Sometimes we forget too.
“But truth always finds oxygen.
“And love… love is gravity. It holds us down when the stars try to pull us apart.”
I sit there after the pad goes dark. Just breathing. Just listening to the quiet.
Valtron doesn’t ask what I said.
But when I crawl into bed beside him, he wraps an arm around my waist and presses his lips to the nape of my neck.
“I felt it,” he whispers. “Whatever it was you gave them. I felt it.”
The stars don’t blinkout. They blaze louder.
I wake to a chirping overload alert. Not from our system—but the public comms net. I roll over, hair a frizzy halo, eyes still gummy from sleep. Valtron’s already propped up beside me, frowning at his wristpad. The glow from the screen paints his face with cold light. He doesn’t say a word, just turns the pad toward me.
My voice is trending.
Not my name—thank the gods—but a clipped section of the message I sent. “Truth is a fire…” played on loop. Mixed with synth beats. Echoed over footage of protest marches and frontier border vigils. Hashtags multiplying like spores: #GhostReporter #GravityOfLove #SignalFlare
I sit up, heart clanging like a dropped wrench. “That was supposed to be encrypted.”
“It was,” Valtron says. “Leena must’ve leaked it.”
I can’t even be mad.
I pull on a robe and shuffle barefoot to the porch. Morning fog’s still hanging low, clinging to the edges of the lake like it’s afraid to leave. The sky’s a sickly pastel green this time of day, just before the two suns rise over the ridge.
