“Not anymore,” I said.
Mara’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer than necessary. “Others do,” she said. “Or they will.”
The truth of it settled heavier than I expected.
I found Lina at the hydro channels, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, helping divert water through a row of translucent pipes. The sound of running water filled the chamber, echoing off stone and glass.
She looked up as I approached, her face flushed from the humid air.
“Hey—your timing’s perfect. We just stopped flooding half the level.”
Her grin was tired but proud. She wiped her hands on her trousers, leaving streaks of mud. “I think I’m getting the hang of your alien plumbing.”
I leaned against the wall. “It’s not alien. It’s efficient.”
“Efficient,” she repeated, amused. “You Mesaarkans really love that word.”
“It keeps us alive.”
“So does laughter,” she said lightly.
I did not know how to answer that.
She turned back to the channel and tightened the valve seal, then straightened, testing her balance on the mended ankle. It held. Her satisfaction warmed the space more than the heat lamps ever did.
At the far end of the channel, one of the Mesaarkan workers paused longer than needed, his gaze lingering in our direction before he returned to his task.
“How’s your shoulder?” Lina asked.
“Healed.”
She nodded, pleased. “Good. I was afraid I’d tied that scarf too tight.”
“It was… effective,” I said, and realized belatedly that my tone had softened.
Lina’s eyes met mine, bright with that human humor that always seemed to find cracks in the dark.
For a long heartbeat, the sound of water became the only thing between us.
Then she cleared her throat. “You should see what they’ve built below this level. The kids are teaching the hydro crops to grow in light tunnels. One of them said, they’ll make the mountain bloom.”
“The mountain already blooms,” I said. “You just have to look closer.”
Her gaze lingered. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes. The war burned what it could. But the roots stayed.”
Something shifted in her expression—a soft recognition, or maybe respect. She smiled, small and real, then brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. The gesture left a smear of dirt across her temple.
Without thinking, I reached out and wiped it away with the back of one finger.
She froze—startled, but not afraid.
Her skin was warm beneath the touch, her pulse steady.
I withdrew my hand at once, but the moment had already marked itself.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
