Waiting for the ghost who never came.
I hold my son’s shoulder and let him skip ahead, skipping stones in his mind and real grass beneath his boots. I breathe the spring in, the moment in, the life in.
And I whisper into the wind, as I always do?—
“Wait for me.”
Because one day I’ll look up and find him there. Or I’ll teach our son to.
Until then, I’ll be mother. Warrior. Survivor.
And you—my warrior with gold eyes—you will be the story I tell—every year, every birthday as the candle burns purple, every night before he sleeps when I say goodnight to the stars and to you.
I turn and carry him back to the car. The sun drops low. The air turns gold-grey. The evening hum begins again.
He yawns, nestles his head against my shoulder. I feel his warmth, his small heart beating, soft and sure.
“You’re here,” I murmur. “You’re right here.”
And under the laughter, the building future and the public eye and the careful re-entry into the world, I hold the secret.
“You’re everything.”
CHAPTER 18
GAROKK
Ihover above the comm-panel in the command pit of the?Hulk, the big hull limp and ghostly in the Badlands’ edge, and still the static rings louder than the stars. My gloves are scorched. My chest is still?he same—burned, patched, alive. The console hums under my fingers; the warnings and metrics flicker red and yellow like warning lights in a skull.
“Reflector,” I breathe. My voice is dry—dust in the throat of a ship that’s seen too many explosions.
“Yes?” His tone crackles through the speaker chain. He’s integrated now, a part of the system—his voice runs along every data bus. I feel him in the walls and wires as much as I sense the hurt in myself.
“Scan for inbound broadcast,” I say. “Any open channels from Novaria-linked nets. I want all of them.”
He whirs. “Affirmative. Filtering—multiple streams. One anomaly—Combine comm traffic. Designator: commemorative event, Orbimall One. Broadcast begins in T-00:03:12.”
My heart picks up its pace. A commemorative event. A station orbiting Novaria?Prime. My blood drums. I press in.Fingers dance across the panel. My claw-tips leave tiny grooves in the metal sheath.
“I want the feed,” I say. “Record and enhance. EVERY frame.”
“Recording,” Reflector says. “Streaming … got it. Initial view: wide-angle. I am enhancing.”
The screen flares. Images flicker. I grip the rail so hard my back catches a jagged scar. The feed sharpens. I hold my breath.
In the crowd—black hair. Shoulder-length, luminous under station lights. A child beside her—soft, small. A purple streak in the hair, glowing faint. The child’s eyes flash gold. I freeze.
“Pause,” I say.
The image stalls.
“Zoom on her face,” my voice taut.
Reflector obeys. The woman's face becomes linen clarity. Her skin lit pale. Her eyes searching the camera. Then the child, stepped closer, glances upward. His hair ruffled. Scaled cheek faint. Golden eyes.
I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want tohurt.
“Enhance frame,” I say, voice low.
