Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cold.

The floor was cold and hard beneath her small knees. Elara’s eyes blinked open, searching for even a hint of warmth. Overhead lights flickered, their noise like a loud heartbeat.

She was alone.

“Mama…” she whispered. Then, voice trembling: “Mama?” she tried again more urgently. Finally, small voice calling, “Mommy?”

The names felt familiar in her mouth, like the softest blanket.

She was shy and quiet—just like Mama—and she hugged herself, trying to feel brave.

Elara realized she was barefoot; the floor was cold against her toes. She looked down and saw the edge of her lab onesie—a light gown with tiny star patterns—dangling just above her knees. It must be from their lab, the one Mama helped make for her.

The room smelled like metal and emptiness. Her tiny hands reached out toward the humming machines, but she touched only silence.

She sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Mama? Mommy? I want... home.”

Her legs wobbled. She stood, clutching the smooth wall for support. One little step. Then another.

“Mama… Mommy…” Her voice quivered. “Please…”

The hallway stretched on forever. Sterile and gray. There was no voice, no one to hold her.

She didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know why.

She just knew her mamas were out there.

And she had to find them.

The hallway stretched on and on — too big, too quiet. Elara walked slowly, hugging her arms close. The smooth floor was cold under her bare feet. She wore only her soft white lab gown, made just for her, with tiny starlike dots embroidered near the hem. It felt safe. Familiar.

But nothing else was.

She turned a corner and saw a bright panel blinking on the wall. It didn’t mean anything to her. The lights, the beeping, the hissing vents — none of it made sense without Mama or Mommy.

She didn’t cry. She wanted to. But Mama said crying didn’t make things better, just wetter.

Still, her throat felt tight.

“Are you lost, little one?”

Elara startled and froze. A stranger had stepped into the corridor — a tall woman in a station uniform, holding a datapad. Her eyes widened when she saw Elara.

“Oh stars—what—where are your parents?” the woman asked, voice going from confused to concerned in seconds. “Are you hurt? Are you from one of the labs?”

Elara shook her head, then nodded. Her mouth opened but no sound came. She curled her fingers tighter into her sleeves.

The woman crouched down. “It’s okay. Can you tell me your name?”

“…Elara,” she whispered. It came out like air.

“Elara,” the woman repeated, surprised. “You’re with R&D then? Project—wait, that’s not possible…” She tapped her earpiece. “Uh, I found a child in corridor G-12. Barefoot, lab gown. Says her name is Elara. I think she might be—”

Before she could finish, a sharp voice rang out behind her.

“What are you doing?”

Elara flinched.

A second figure stepped into view — delicate in build, but radiating something sharper than authority. She looked barely older than a teenager, yet the air around her felt heavier, like gravity itself bent to accommodate her presence.

Her ash-brown hair was sleek and fine, the strands dark at the crown and melting into violet tips that shimmered faintly in the sterile light. Her purple eyes were cool and unreadable, but alert — the eyes of someone who noticed everything and trusted nothing she hadn’t verified herself.

She wore no lab coat, no badge — just a layered black outfit, composed of sharp lines and subtle asymmetries. It was elegant and mathematical, like the embodiment of a well-written equation.

The woman straightened immediately. “Lady Herta. I was about to notify central—”

“I heard,” Herta said. Her gaze flicked down to Elara like she was a mathematical error. “That’s a child.”

Elara took a step back.

The name sounded familiar.

“Mommy…?” she whispered, barely a sound.

Herta blinked.

The silence stretched.

“I’m sorry,” the crew member said quickly, lowering her voice. “She’s disoriented. Likely a stray test subject—”

“Incorrect,” Herta said. She stepped forward. “There are no child test subjects. Not under my authority.”

Elara looked up at her, shy, quiet, and still as a statue. Her wide eyes shimmered. Her voice was nearly lost in the air.

“You… look like Mommy…” she whispered again.

Herta stopped.

And for just a second, her perfect posture faltered. Her expression didn’t change — but the pause was real. Measurable.

“Elara, was it?” she asked slowly.

The girl nodded, tiny and cautious. She stepped forward — slow, unsteady. Her bare feet slipped slightly on the smooth floor, and she wobbled, arms spreading out for balance like a baby bird learning to stand. She nearly tipped sideways before catching herself with one hand on the wall.

She steadied just enough to look up at Herta again.

Herta’s eyes narrowed. Not unkind, but… calculating. Studying. Searching for answers where there shouldn’t be any.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. The girl was only a few feet away now. Close enough to touch.

Chapter Text

The silence between them stretched like the space between distant stars—empty, vast, and impossible to ignore.

Elara stood small and uncertain in the sterile corridor, her bare feet pressing against the cold, metallic floor. The hem of her star-patterned lab gown fluttered just above her knees, fragile and out of place. Her violet eyes—soft, wide, and filled with a strange mixture of fear and hope—locked onto the woman before her.

Herta didn’t move.

She studied the child with the same precision and scrutiny as one might study a mathematical equation, searching for errors, inconsistencies, something to explain this anomaly. The girl’s existence defied all logic, all records. No one should have been here.

Yet, Elara stood there. Real. Breathing. Waiting.

The silence stretched on. Elara’s tiny fingers curled tightly around the edges of her gown. Her legs trembled slightly, unused to steady walking. Then, at last, Herta exhaled—a brief, almost imperceptible sound—and turned away.

“Come with me,” she said, voice cold but commanding.

Elara blinked, uncertain, but obeyed. One small step. Then another. Her balance faltered, a foot slipping on the smooth floor. She reached out, steadying herself on the wall.

Herta walked ahead without looking back.

Two of her puppets followed in perfect formation—eerily lifelike miniatures of herself, down to every detail. They moved with unsettling grace, ball-jointed limbs shifting smoothly. Their long ash-brown hair faded into violet tips, matching their intense purple eyes that flickered softly in the dim corridor light. Each wore the signature frilled white minidress with lilac diamond motifs, draped beneath black coats exposing delicate shoulders, golden locks and chains crossing their torsos. Dark purple boots with gold pins and indigo ribbons clicked lightly on the floor, their black berets adorned with small purple flowers.

One puppet silently summoned a shimmering command panel from thin air, waiting to execute Herta’s unspoken orders. The other approached Elara, eyes glowing faintly as it began a thorough, scanning sweep—measuring vitals, muscular tone, gait stability, neurological activity. Every reading added to the unsettling mystery.

“Prepare secured quarters,” Herta instructed without hesitation. “Clothing, child-appropriate, neutral tones, size four. Nutritionally balanced soft foods. Privacy protocols active. No external access.”

The puppets acknowledged with a graceful nod and glided ahead, silently performing the tasks.

Elara trailed behind, quiet and hesitant. She clutched the edges of her gown, the fabric slipping from her small shoulders as she moved. Her steps were slow and uneven, as though she had yet to learn to walk properly. The cold metal floor was unfamiliar and unforgiving beneath her bare feet, but she never complained.

They reached the sealed wing of the research deck—an area accessible only by Herta’s clearance. The main door folded open with a quiet hiss. Inside, a circular chamber glowed softly under curved white walls, sleek consoles lining the periphery.

By the time they entered, the puppets had already prepared the space. A cot folded out smoothly from one wall, draped with a warm thermal blanket. A tray of steaming food—soft rice, sliced fruit, and nutrient broth—rose on a nearby platform. A sealed container held a neatly folded stack of clothing.

Herta glanced over her shoulder.

Elara hesitated, her wide eyes scanning the strange, clinical environment.

“You may enter,” Herta said.

The girl nodded and stepped inside.

“You may sit,” Herta added.

Elara began crossing the room—but her legs wobbled. She stumbled forward, nearly falling.

Herta’s hand shot out instantly, steadying Elara’s arm with calculated precision.

Elara gasped softly, eyes wide with surprise.

“You are physically undeveloped,” Herta stated bluntly. “You require support.”

“…Okay,” Elara whispered.

She made her way carefully to the cot and climbed up, folding her small legs beneath her. Her hands nervously fidgeted with the sleeves of her gown.

Herta turned to the console. The puppet’s scan results glowed in the air: minor malnutrition, muscle weakness, elevated emotional distress.

Then, the genome data appeared.

Herta’s fingers hovered over the panel.

One DNA strand was hers—an exact match.

The other—

She shut the file. Not yet.

Behind her, Elara spoke softly, “I want to go home.”

Herta didn’t turn.

“Where is home?”

“…With Mama and Mommy.”

“Names, not titles,” Herta replied.

Elara tilted her head as if trying to remember. “Mama smells like the flowers that think—the clever kind in the smart garden. She sings while she works, even when no one else does.”

Herta remained silent.

“And Mommy… Mommy’s serious. She doesn’t like hugs, but she gives them sometimes. She says I’m part of the experiment.”

Herta’s posture stiffened imperceptibly.

“What kind of experiment?” she asked.

Elara shrugged. “The special kind. The kind with love.”

Herta said nothing but gave a curt nod. “Change into the clothes provided.”

Elara slid off the cot and opened the container. She unfolded soft tunic and leggings. “I can try.”

Herta turned her back. “I will not watch.”

Minutes passed in uneasy quiet.

“I dropped the sock…” Elara’s soft voice broke the silence.

“I don’t care,” Herta replied flatly.

“…Okay.”

Elara soon appeared again, clumsily dressed, one sock on backward, the other missing, sleeves uneven. Her hair was tangled, and she looked small and vulnerable.

“I’m hungry,” she said.

The food tray lowered to her level.

Elara sat on the bench, grasping the spoon like a fragile toy. Her attempts to eat were clumsy—rice spilled, broth dripped, hands trembled.

She tried not to cry.

But tears came anyway.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know where they went. I woke up alone. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her small body shook as she curled into herself.

“I want them. I want Mama. I want Mommy. I want to go home.”

Herta said nothing.

One puppet floated forward, offering a cloth.

Herta raised a hand to stop it.

Slowly, hesitantly, she stepped closer.

Elara didn’t notice until Herta’s footsteps halted beside her.

The child’s tear-streaked eyes lifted, shimmering with fear and hope.

Herta knelt awkwardly beside her.

“Stop crying,” she said softly. “There is no threat here.”

Elara’s arms suddenly wrapped around Herta’s neck.

Herta froze.

After a long pause, she lifted a hand and rested it on the child’s back.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t comforting.

It was something.

“You’re here,” Herta said quietly. “I’m not leaving.”

Elara’s sobs softened.

She didn’t let go.

And neither did Herta.

Herta’s hand remained on Elara’s back, steadying the small trembling form. The child’s sobs gradually slowed, her body relaxing slightly against the unexpected contact.

Herta straightened, her gaze sharp again. She raised a hand, and the puppets immediately moved into action. One floated ahead, vanishing down the corridor with fluid grace; the other remained by Elara’s side, observing her carefully.

“Your clothes are disheveled,” Herta stated. Kneeling, she reached out with deliberate precision to straighten the loose fabric around Elara’s shoulders and smooth the rumpled tunic.

Elara watched silently, her small hands clutching the folds of her gown. She made no movement to resist, only looked up at Herta with wide, tentative eyes.

one of the puppet returned swiftly, the door to a nearby private room sliding open with a soft hiss. The space was simple but warm—an enclosed chamber with a bed draped in soft linens, a small desk, and a light panel dimmed to soothe.

“Come,” Herta said quietly, standing and gently disengaging.

Elara clung to her sleeve, fingers curling tightly around the fabric as if afraid to let go. Her small feet shuffled after Herta, unsteady but determined.

The puppets led the way, their delicate steps echoing softly in the corridor as they approached a private chamber reserved just for her.

“You will stay here,” Herta said. “Rest.”

Elara nodded, but as Herta turned to leave, the child’s fragile fingers curled suddenly around her coat, holding her back.

Herta paused, then glanced down. Elara’s expression was small and vulnerable.

“You are safe here,” Herta said, softer than before.

Reluctantly, Elara released her grip and stepped into the room. Herta followed, her eyes flickering to the cot.

Slowly, she helped Elara onto the bed, lifting her gently despite the child’s feeble protests.

The soft fabric of the blanket wrapped around Elara’s frame.

“Sleep,” Herta instructed softly. “You will need it.” Elara nodded against her shoulder, She nestled in, eyelids fluttering closed.

Herta sat there silently, the puppets quietly arranging themselves near the doorway, their watchful eyes never blinking.

Then Herta stood sighing, looking down. she reached into a pocket and pulled out her phone, its surface smooth and dark. Her fingers moved quickly, typing a brief message with deliberate care, she paused, rereading the words once more before pressing send, The screen blinked softly, then went dark, The message was simple, coded in their shared protocol. Herta slipped the phone back into her coat, her eyes drifted back toward the room where Elara rested.

Chapter Text

The greenhouse lab was unusually still.

Ruan Mei stood surrounded by rows of bioluminescent flora—each one a product of her own hand, her own research, her own quiet love. They glowed in gentle rhythms, reacting to unseen stimuli, pulsing in response to atmospheric shifts. Normally, the symphony of light calmed her. Tonight, it only deepened her unease.

Her gaze drifted over a nutrient culture slowly crystallizing under a scanner. She hadn’t adjusted the temperature in over an hour. Her notes were scattered, half-complete. She hadn’t moved in far longer.

Something was wrong.
And then—
The communicator chimed. A direct, encrypted message. From Herta.

That alone made her straighten.

She tapped to open it, expecting dry data or another dismissive correction. Instead, four short lines stared back at her:

“I’ve encountered something... inconsistent.”
“Come to the space station. Immediately.”
“No logs. No questions. Bring only what you trust.”
“You’ll understand when you see it.”

Ruan Mei’s stomach dropped. The cursor blinked at the end of the final sentence like it was daring her to breathe.

Herta didn’t ask for help. Not like this.

“Inconsistent?” she echoed aloud, barely a whisper. Her fingers hovered midair, then lowered to her sides as a strange chill passed over her shoulders.

It wasn’t fear. It was the feeling you get just before something important shifts—before a mutation expresses itself, before a variable collapses into certainty.

She turned off the music, the lights, the entire greenhouse lab. Her hands moved with clean efficiency: sealing the environment, locking down digital access, erasing every trace of her current project.

She packed lightly—a handheld sequencer, gloves, her private annotated notebook. No assistant. No samples. No trace.

Something had happened. Something Herta couldn’t quantify.

And if Herta couldn’t quantify it, that meant it was either dangerous—or precious.

Just before Ruan Mei’s arrival

The room was quiet. Almost too quiet.

Herta stood still, her hand lingering over her coat pocket. For a moment, she did not move—her mind calculating probabilities, scenarios, outcomes, but finding no clean answers. That alone unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Behind her, the private room was dim and quiet. The only sound came from Elara’s soft breathing.

The child had curled into the center of the cot, limbs tucked close beneath the thermal blanket. One small hand had slipped out, fingers twitching slightly as if grasping for something in a dream. Her chest rose and fell in gentle rhythm. Her face was relaxed now—tear tracks dried on her cheeks No more crying. No more trembling, brows no longer pinched in confusion.

Herta watched, unmoving.

The puppets stood on either side of the doorway like statues, motionless but watching.

Herta had dismissed all other units.

Too many variables. Too many eyes.

The overhead light panel adjusted on its own, dimming to a warmer hue as the system registered low emotional activity and stable vitals from within the room. One of the puppets floated just outside, silently logging scans and behavioral patterns.

The child’s vitals were stable. Her nutritional levels were adjusting. The analysis scans were complete. And yet—none of it offered any meaningful answer.

A child with no record of arrival. No history. No classification in any Stellaron database. No access credentials. No trace through the simulation core.
And yet—her genome bore Herta’s markers. Down to the intronic signature strand used only in her controlled cloning trials.

The second strand—still unconfirmed.

Herta’s gaze narrowed slightly, not in irritation—but in thought. A quiet, unsettling thought.

The child had recognized her.

Not intellectually. Not by name.

But emotionally. As if she knew her.

Herta had almost opened the file of the DNA test once again. Almost.
But she didn’t.

She already knew one of the strands matched hers.
Perfectly.
Precisely.
Uncomfortably.

The other remained unidentified, Not that it mattered yet.

What mattered was the child in that room—who had looked up at her through tears and whispered, “I want to go home.”

What did that even mean?

No calculations, no theories. No models that accounted for this, Her gaze flicked back toward the bed, Elara shifted again, murmuring something inaudible. Her brow creased in her sleep once more.

She didn't speak, didn’t sigh, didn’t move. Just stood there.

Waiting.

She had not moved for twenty-seven minutes, Not because she couldn’t handle it, but because some part of her—a part she refused to name—didn’t want to.

Inside the room, Elara stirred. A quiet whimper escaped her lips, barely audible through the panel, Herta’s hands tightened behind her back. She didn’t move to go in.

Instead, she whispered to herself, voice low and even “It’s a deviation. Temporary. It won’t interfere with protocol.”

And in the silence, a soft sound broke through—the distant, echoing footsteps of someone approaching the wing. Someone with access. Someone expected.

Herta didn’t turn, but her gaze lingered longer on Elara than it should have, She simply spoked, without looking away “…Took you long enough.”

Ruan Mei didn’t waste time. She didn’t ask questions.

She moved through the corridors of her department like a shadow, eyes forward, lab coat trailing like a flag of silence. No one stopped her—no one dared. She keyed into a restricted hangar with credentials she hadn’t used in years.

Docked in the cradle was a single-pilot transport pod—compact, efficient, stripped of anything non-essential. Just the way Herta would want it.

She entered without hesitation.

The door sealed with a hiss. Lights dimmed, systems flickered to life. She activated stealth mode manually—no log entries, no digital tags, no communication signals. The pod would travel blind.

No one would know she was gone.

She laid her gloved hands on the control sphere. Her breath was slow, but her pulse betrayed her—tight in her throat, fluttering against her ribs.

“Inconsistent,” she repeated aloud. “You’ll understand when you see it.”

She hadn’t brought much—just her neural field scanner, a portable analysis kit, and a sealed hardcopy notebook that had traveled with her since her postdoc years. Inside it were sketches, gene trees, impossible theories, and scribbled dreams she never dared submit to peer review.

She strapped in, closed her eyes, and gave the pod a single voice command

"Set course. Space station Herta. Silent entry.”

With a low surge of force, the pod launched.

Through the reinforced viewpane, the world of her research station vanished behind her, swallowed by stars. The transport sped forward, a silver pin of silence in the dark.

Ruan Mei sat still, alone with her thoughts, She hadn’t asked Herta what the subject was, She didn’t need to.

Deep in her chest—where instinct and science met—she already knew this would change everything.

Chapter Text

The corridor outside Herta’s private lab wing was quieter than usual.

Not silent in the way most research wings were—sterile, humming with the faint undercurrent of filtered air and automated systems—but quiet in a way that felt intentional. Muted. A hush imposed by design, not accident.

Ruan Mei stepped out of the transport pod with practiced grace, her black heels making soft, deliberate contact with the floor. The gold patterns along the edges of her shoes caught the low light briefly, then disappeared into the soft glow of the corridor.

Her dark green and white qipao swayed with every step—an elegant design, rich with gold trim and soft embroidery along the hem. On the center-left of her hip, delicate floral accents rested like a signature rather than an accessory. Her elbow-length gloves matched the green of her dress, refined and functional. A silver bangle circled her left wrist with quiet precision.

Long brown hair, streaked with soft turquoise, flowed behind her in loose waves, secured high near her crown by a gold-colored DNA hairpin that shimmered faintly as she moved. A single pearl earring dangled from her left ear, swaying slightly with her steps. The matching necklace rested against her collarbone like a forgotten thought—subtle, graceful, and unmistakably hers.

Everything about her spoke of intelligence wrapped in composure. Elegance not performed, but embodied.

The sealed door behind her hissed shut, locking away the long, silent journey that had brought her here. She had not spoken during the entire descent. She still didn’t now.

Everything about this was unlogged. Untouched. Unwelcome to oversight.

She moved forward.

The biometric panel outside the chamber lit up at her approach. It didn’t request credentials—Herta had already cleared her passage. The door slid open with a gentle chime, revealing a room of softened lighting and meticulously calibrated silence.

Herta stood within.

She was still in her standard uniform, though her coat sleeves were rolled slightly, her posture rigid, hands clasped behind her back. She didn’t turn when Ruan Mei entered. Instead, she stared through the curved partition at the room beyond.

A single cot.

A child, curled beneath thermal sheets.

Ruan Mei came to stand beside her, gaze following Herta’s.

“You said I’d understand,” she murmured, her voice the first ripple in the stillness.

Herta didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes remained fixed on the sleeping figure beyond the glass.

“I didn’t say you’d believe it,” she said eventually. “Just that you’d understand.”

The child—no older than five or six—lay still, her breathing soft and even. Her small frame barely disturbed the sheets. Wisps of violet-tinted hair curled against her forehead, and her eyelashes fluttered faintly with the rhythm of REM sleep. The monitors at the side of the cot blinked slow, steady green.

For a long moment, Ruan Mei didn’t speak.

Then, quietly: “She’s stabilized.”

“Yes.”

“No external trauma.”

“No.”

Ruan Mei turned her head slightly, brows furrowing. “You ran comparative sequencing?”

“I ran everything.” Herta’s voice was even. “Intronic strand. Identical to mine. My private encoding—never shared, never replicated. Not even digitized outside this station.”

“She’s genetically yours,” Ruan Mei murmured. “At least… partly.”

Herta didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

Ruan Mei studied the child again, her gaze tracing delicate features—soft jawline, narrow brows, the faintest dip in her nose bridge. So much was unique. But there were pieces—tiny fragments—that resonated with familiarity. Not just Herta’s. Something else.

Somewhere between memory and theory, Ruan Mei felt it. That quiet buzz she always felt before a breakthrough. A signal just beneath the noise.

“I’ve seen something like this,” she said slowly. “Not in practice. Not in life. But in sketches. Hypotheses. Fringe theories.”

“You mean your unsubmitted postdoc work.”

Ruan Mei blinked, then gave a quiet, rueful smile. “You really did read everything.”

Herta didn’t answer. But something in her shoulders had shifted.

“She’s… beautiful.”

This time, Herta glanced sideways at her. Just once.

“You see it too.”

It wasn’t a question.

Ruan Mei took a step closer to the glass, her fingertips hovering just above the data console.

“Vitals are normal. Cognitive patterns above the curve for a child this age.” Her voice lowered. “But she shouldn’t be here.”

“No simulation record. No entry logs. No known origin,” Herta said softly. “And no matches on file. Except one.”

Ruan Mei looked toward her, one brow arching slightly. Herta didn’t look away from the child.

“She has your markers,” Ruan Mei said. Not quite surprised. Not quite calm.

Herta’s voice was flat. “Intronic strand. Identical to my own. My private sequencing—never replicated outside my own cloning protocols.”

“Which means…”

“It’s her. But not.”

Ruan Mei’s gaze lingered on the girl’s sleeping face, soft features lit by the faint halo of the vitals display. A feeling, subtle but real, stirred in her chest. One she hadn’t felt since the early days of her postdoctoral lab—standing before something she couldn’t classify. A variable not yet named.

And then the child stirred.

Elara shifted beneath the blanket, her small fingers curling near her cheek. Her brow creased slightly, and then—without fully opening her eyes—she mumbled something faint.

Neither woman moved.

Ruan Mei’s pulse quickened.

The vitals monitor responded in kind, neural activity spiking gently. Subconscious response to presence—consistent, steady. Not distressed. Just aware.

Then—

“Mama…?”

The word was soft. Almost unformed. But it landed like gravity between them.

Herta didn’t move.

Ruan Mei inhaled slowly, her eyes fixed on the girl’s face.

Elara’s lashes fluttered open. She blinked once. Twice.

And then her eyes—deep violet, rimmed with starlight—locked directly onto Ruan Mei.

The girl sat up slightly, still dazed, voice no louder than a breath: “You came back…”

Time seemed to stutter.

The way she said it wasn’t a question. It was a memory. Or a hope returned.

Ruan Mei stepped closer, her gloved hand slowly lowering to the access panel.

Elara reached forward, tiny fingers lifting toward the glass—not pleading, not confused. Just… expecting.

“I knew you’d find me,” she whispered.

Ruan Mei keyed the door open without hesitation.

The airlock hissed softly as she entered.

Inside, the room was warmer. The artificial light mimicked afternoon sun, filtered through a gentle haze. The clinical edge had been softened—sheets made from breathable fibers, the scent of calming agents in the air, but something else too: pressed flowers. Herbal oils. The familiar trace of Ruan Mei herself.

Elara sat up fully as Ruan Mei approached, legs tucked beneath her like petals curling inward. Her eyes never left Ruan Mei’s.

Ruan Mei knelt beside the cot, lowering herself until they were face to face.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked gently.

Elara tilted her head, considering. “Not really,” she admitted. “But I feel like I should.”

She paused, then added: “You feel… warm. Not outside-warm. Inside.”

Ruan Mei’s smile was faint, but it reached her eyes. “That’s a lovely way to say it.”

Elara’s gaze dipped to the pearl necklace resting against Ruan Mei’s collarbone. Her small fingers reached forward slowly, stopping just short of touching. “It glows,” she said softly.

Ruan Mei laughed lightly. “Only when someone kind notices it.”

“I think… my other mama had pearls too,” Elara said. “She sang. I remember the singing.”

Ruan Mei didn’t ask more. She reached into her coat and pulled out a small plush-shaped scanner—white, with soft bunny ears and a gentle hum beneath the surface.

“Would you like to play a game?” she asked. “It’s called a mind mirror. It listens to your thoughts and lets me see how clever you are.”

Elara’s eyes lit up. “It’s cute.”

“I made it that way,” Ruan Mei said. “For children who don’t like cold machines.”

Elara cradled it carefully. “It smells like the garden,” she whispered.

Ruan Mei paused.

“What garden?”

“I don’t know…” Elara looked up, uncertain. “But you were there.”

Behind them, Herta watched—silent as ever, but no longer unmoved.

“Will you stay?” Elara asked suddenly.

Ruan Mei reached forward, brushing back a strand of hair from the girl’s face. Her thumb lingered just a moment longer than needed.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And she meant it.

Even without all the answers, even without knowing where Elara came from—this much, at least, was certain: she had found something that defied logic, defied theory, defied protocol.

And for the first time in years, Ruan Mei didn’t want to explain it.

She just wanted to be here.

With Elara.

With Herta.

She looked down at the child, now half-dozing again, the scanner glowing softly in her lap.

And she whispered, not to Herta, not to the child, but to the quiet itself:

“We’ll figure this out. All of it.”

And for the first time since Herta’s message arrived, the silence felt like the beginning of something—not an error.
Not a threat, But a new variable, A beautiful, breathing unknown.

The lab’s private care suite had been activated—something Herta hadn’t used in years.

Now, it hummed with warmth and low lighting, its sterilized corners softened by soft textures and small comforts. The air carried the scent of sandalwood cleanser and flower water—faint, but calming.

Elara sat perched on a low cushioned bench, small feet dangling, her new clothes slightly too big but clean and soft. A pale cream tunic, brushed fleece pants, and a faint star pattern along the hem. Her hair had been combed and loosely tied back with a silk ribbon, wisps of violet strands still curling playfully around her cheeks.

She looked like a child again.

Not a puzzle. Not a mystery. Just… someone small, and alive, and real.

A small tray sat across her lap, its contents carefully arranged: steamed buns, warm broth, slices of fruit, and a soft nutrient gel that didn’t smell like anything artificial. Ruan Mei had insisted.

Across from her, Herta sat stiffly on a nearby chair—hands folded in her lap, one foot tapping silently against the floor in what was probably the closest she got to nerves. She hadn’t touched the tea Ruan Mei had made.

Ruan Mei, for her part, sat closer to Elara’s side—one leg crossed neatly, a stylus in hand, but the datapad before her remained off. She wasn’t studying Elara. Not now.

Elara took a bite of bun, then glanced up.

“Is it okay if I eat all the strawberries?” she asked, voice a little sleepy, a little shy.

“They’re yours,” Ruan Mei said, smiling. “As many as you want.”

Herta blinked. “They were selected for optimal sugar-to-fiber ratio—”
She stopped when Elara looked at her. Not in fear. Just… curious.

Ruan Mei glanced over, her expression unreadable but faintly amused. “Translation: yes, it’s okay.”

Elara giggled once—quiet and light—and popped another strawberry into her mouth.

Ruan Mei leaned slightly closer. “Does your hair feel better now?”

Elara nodded, cheeks full. “It’s not itchy anymore. The water smelled like flowers.”

“That’s because it had chamomile oil,” Ruan Mei said gently. “It helps with stress.”

“I like it,” Elara said. “You brushed it really nice.”

“She cried the first two minutes,” Ruan Mei added, soft enough not to tease. “But only a little.”

“I didn’t cry,” Elara insisted, wiping her mouth. “My eyes just got mad.”

This time, even Herta exhaled—more a suggestion of a laugh than the real thing.

They sat there like that for several moments—no urgency, no machines running, no theories. Just the child, and the two women she now sat between.

Herta finally leaned forward.

“You haven’t asked why you’re here,” she said, quietly.

Elara didn’t look scared. She blinked slowly, thoughtful.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think… it’s where I was supposed to be after.”

“After what?” Ruan Mei asked gently.

Elara looked down at her tray. “After the bright part.”

Ruan Mei didn’t push. Instead, she reached over and gently tucked a ribbon loop back behind the girl’s ear.

“Well, you’re here now,” she said. “And we’re going to make sure you stay safe.”

“Together,” Elara said, not as a question.

Herta looked at her then—really looked. And for a moment, her hand twitched slightly against her coat sleeve.

“Yes,” she said. “Together.”

Chapter Text

The early light filtered softly through the slatted blinds of the care suite, casting long stripes across the pale cushions where Elara slept curled up like a small comet wrapped in orbit. The faint hum of filtered air whispered through the vents, steady and unobtrusive.

Ruan Mei stood by the window, her arms folded, eyes tracing the pale garden beyond the glass. The scent of sandalwood and flower water lingered faintly, wrapping the room in a quiet calm.

Behind her, Herta flipped through a thin datapad with meticulous fingers, brows knit in thought. The low murmur of their voices stirred the stillness.

“We can’t avoid this forever,” Ruan Mei said softly. “If we’re going to help her… we have to understand what she remembers. And how.”

Herta didn’t look up. “I know. But whatever you plan, it has to be gentle. No stress. No surprises.”

Ruan Mei’s gaze flicked toward the cushions, where Elara’s soft breaths rose and fell in rhythm. “I thought to start with a simple cognitive scan. Nothing invasive. Just the mind mirror device.”

Herta’s eyes finally met hers. “You know the risks. Imprinting, memory bleed—”

“Minimal with this technology. It’s passive. And child-friendly. She won’t even notice.”

There was a pause—quiet enough to hold the weight of unsaid fears. Herta exhaled slowly.

“Fine. But if anything seems off, we stop immediately.”

Ruan Mei nodded, stepping away from the window. “Agreed. We proceed carefully. Always.”

Elara stirred, blinking open violet eyes that caught the light like tiny stars.

“Good morning,” Ruan Mei whispered, moving closer.

Elara’s gaze lifted to meet hers. A faint smile curved her lips. “Morning.”

For a moment, nothing else mattered.

Elara shifted on the cushions, eyelashes fluttering as the morning light grew brighter. Her small fingers flexed gently against the soft fleece of her tunic.

Then, barely more than a whisper, she spoke.

“Don’t touch the fourth drawer… it’s where Mama Herta hides the broken stars.”

Ruan Mei stiffened, her eyes snapping toward Elara. Herta’s hand froze mid-gesture, the datapad forgotten in her lap.

“The fourth drawer?” Herta’s voice was low, almost breathless. “That… shouldn’t exist.”

“What do you mean?” Ruan Mei asked, stepping closer.

Herta’s gaze darkened. “It’s a private compartment in my quarters. Sealed for years. Holds the discarded cores of failed experiments—unstable star fragments. They’re dangerous, unlogged, and no one was supposed to know.”

Elara’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You told me not to look. But the stars went out… and I felt like I needed to find them.”

Ruan Mei exchanged a glance with Herta, uncertainty flickering between them.

“How could she know?” Ruan Mei murmured.

Herta shook her head slowly, voice barely a whisper. “That drawer… was my secret.”

Ruan Mei adjusted the soft, white bunny-shaped device carefully in her hands. Its smooth surface glimmered faintly under the warm light, the delicate ears twitching like a gentle promise.

“Ready to play a game?” she asked, kneeling beside Elara, who was now sitting cross-legged on the cushions. The child’s violet eyes sparkled with curiosity.

Elara nodded eagerly, cradling the device as if it were a treasured friend. “It smells like the garden.”

Ruan Mei smiled softly, flipping a switch on the device. A gentle hum filled the air — soothing, almost musical.

The device began to project soft patterns onto the wall — shifting shapes and colors that formed puzzles and symbols. Ruan Mei explained the rules simply, “Match the shapes, and the bunny will sing.”

Elara’s small hands moved with surprising precision, connecting fractal patterns and solving logic puzzles far beyond what a child her age should manage.

Ruan Mei’s eyes narrowed in disbelief as Elara completed a sequence that mirrored a complex fractal algorithm she had developed but never published, one she only shared in private notes during her postdoctoral days.

“Where did you learn this?” Ruan Mei asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Elara tilted her head thoughtfully. “I think you showed me. Once. When I was scared.”

Ruan Mei’s breath hitched. That lullaby—soft and haunting—began to play gently from the device. Elara hummed along, the melody perfectly matching the tune Ruan Mei’s mother had sung to her in childhood, a song never recorded, only remembered.

Herta sat stiffly nearby, lips pressed tight, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of fascination and unease.

The game continued, but the air had shifted. What began as playful curiosity now carried the weight of impossible truths.

Elara’s hands trembled slightly as she folded them in her lap. Her violet eyes searched Ruan Mei’s face, wide and unsure.

“Why do I know things you don’t?” she whispered, voice barely steady. “Things that sound like memories... but you never said them. Things that feel like stories, but I lived them.”

Ruan Mei’s throat tightened. She looked away, searching for the right words, but found none.

Herta’s gaze softened as she stood slowly, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “Elara, some memories... they aren’t always ours alone. Sometimes they come from places science can’t yet explain. They are fragments of what was, or what could have been.”

Elara blinked, confusion and hope mingling in her gaze. “But if those memories aren’t mine, why do they feel so real? Why do I feel like I belong somewhere else?”

The room fell silent, heavy with unspoken fears.

Ruan Mei finally knelt beside Elara, her voice gentle. “We don’t have all the answers yet. But we promise to help you find the truth.”

Elara’s lips quivered, a small breath escaping. “I don’t want to be lost in between.”

Herta stepped closer, placing a steady hand on Elara’s shoulder. “You won’t be. We’ll face it together.”

The child looked up at them, vulnerability softening into tentative trust.

The room had fallen into a hush again, broken only by the soft hum of the ventilation system and the faint ticking of a nearby diagnostic display.

Elara sat quietly now, a sketchpad balanced on her knees. Ruan Mei had given it to her without prompting, offering soft encouragement and a small tray of colored pencils beside it. "Draw whatever you want,” she had said, “whatever comes to mind.”

Elara hadn’t spoken since.

Her small fingers moved with gentle certainty, guiding the pencil across the page. Her brow furrowed in thought, lips parted slightly in silent concentration. She didn’t seem aware of the way both women watched her — not intrusively, but carefully, as if she might vanish if startled.

When she finished, she held the pad close to her chest, eyes lowered.

“Can we see it?” Ruan Mei asked gently, crouching beside her again.

Elara hesitated, then nodded and turned the page outward.

Ruan Mei’s breath caught.

Herta leaned forward without speaking.

The drawing was simple, but precise. A sloping hill beneath twin moons. A house with tall windows, wrapped in climbing ivy. A domed observatory in the distance, its glass gleaming with tiny, hand-drawn stars. And three figures at the center: two adults — unmistakably Herta and Ruan Mei — seated on a bench with a small child between them. The child was pointing upward.

Above them, a projection of constellations shimmered in delicate strokes — familiar formations, but drawn in a configuration that hadn’t been mapped yet. Ruan Mei recognized pieces of it. She had theorized that alignment in a future research note she hadn’t published. Herta hadn’t even seen it.

“Elara,” Ruan Mei whispered, “when did you see this?”

The girl tilted her head. “I don’t know. I just… remember it. It felt warm.”

Herta’s gaze lingered on the observatory dome. It was too specific. The angle. The placement. The ivy vines on the side wall — one of her old designs for a research retreat she’d sketched out years ago but never built. She had shown it to no one.

Elara pointed to the stars above the drawing. “You said the sky was different that day. Because something had changed. And I remember being happy… really happy.”

Her finger drifted down to the bottom corner of the page, where she’d written something in faint pencil:

“Home, when the stars come back.”

Neither woman spoke. The silence wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of possibility. Of fear. Of something neither of them could name yet.

Elara hugged the sketchpad to her chest again and leaned into Ruan Mei’s side.

“I miss it,” she said softly. “Even if it hasn’t happened yet.”

The stars above the ceiling shifted slowly — not real stars, but a soft projection Ruan Mei had cast from her terminal. They moved in patterns she hadn’t finished naming. Gentle arcs and shapes meant to calm. To soothe. To feel like safety.

Elara lay on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, her sketchpad resting near her knees. She wasn’t quite asleep, but she was close — her eyes half-lidded, her breath slow and even.

Across the room, Ruan Mei stood with her arms lightly folded, shoulder against the wall. Herta sat nearby, legs crossed, her coat folded neatly over the back of her chair, as if removing it would help her feel less like a scientist and more like something else.

Neither woman spoke for a long while.

“She shouldn’t know any of this,” Herta said eventually, her voice so quiet it almost didn’t disturb the stillness. “Not the drawer. Not the observatory. Not those stars.”

Ruan Mei didn’t respond right away. Her gaze was fixed on Elara — not in a clinical way, but like someone watching a memory take form.

“She doesn’t know it the way we do,” Ruan Mei said softly. “She remembers it like a story someone whispered to her in a dream.”

Herta’s eyes stayed on the ceiling. “Or something she lived already.”

The room was quiet again.

Then Elara stirred.

“You always got quiet like this,” she murmured, barely audible. “When you thought I was sleeping.”

Ruan Mei straightened.

Elara didn’t open her eyes. “You’d whisper about theories, and Mama Herta would say, ‘No, that’s reckless,’ and then you’d keep talking anyway.”

She gave a tiny smile, half-buried in her blanket. “I liked it. I liked being there.”

Ruan Mei approached, kneeling beside her again. “You’re here now.”

Elara’s fingers curled loosely into the blanket. “But what if I forget again?”

“You won’t,” Ruan Mei said, and meant it.

A long pause. Then:

“If the bright part comes back,” Elara whispered, “will you still find me?”

This time, it was Herta who answered, stepping forward until she stood beside them both.

“We’ll never stop,” she said. “No matter how far.”

Elara nodded faintly, satisfied, her breathing already slowing into the soft rhythm of sleep.

Ruan Mei watched her for a moment longer. Then, gently, she reached forward and scooped the girl into her arms.

Elara didn’t stir. Her small head rested against Ruan Mei’s shoulder, her breath warm and slow.

“Are you sure?” Herta asked quietly, glancing toward the side wing of the lab.

“She’ll sleep better in her own space,” Ruan Mei murmured. “Even if it’s new to her.”

Herta nodded once, then turned and walked ahead, leading the way to the modest room she’d hastily prepared that morning — a space that wasn’t sterile, for once. There were soft sheets, dim lighting, and a little alcove for books Ruan Mei had insisted on.

Ruan Mei carried Elara inside, lowering her gently onto the bed.

The child didn’t wake.

She only shifted, curling into the blankets with the same quiet trust she’d shown from the moment they arrived.

Herta lingered in the doorway, watching.

Ruan Mei brushed a curl from Elara’s face and straightened the edge of the blanket, then turned back to Herta.

“She feels like ours,” Ruan Mei whispered.

Herta didn’t argue.

She just stood there, unmoving, as the soft light behind them dimmed… and the door slid quietly shut.

Chapter Text

The lab felt colder than usual.

Not in temperature — Herta’s climate systems were perfectly regulated — but in the way the quiet pressed against her skin, like the weight of unsolved equations. She stood before a console that had long since dimmed, its last scan results still glowing faintly in the corner of the display.

She didn’t look at them.

Instead, her eyes drifted to the hallway beyond the glass partition, where morning light filtered through translucent panels. The world outside continued in its careful order — test cycles, data loops, theories branching endlessly like neural trees.

And yet, the child asleep behind the next door had shattered that order with a single sentence.

“Don’t touch the fourth drawer…”

Herta closed her eyes briefly. That drawer hadn’t been opened in years — forgotten by everyone, even her. Not even Ruan Mei had known about it.

And then there were the drawings. The melody. The alignment of those stars.

She feels like ours.

Ruan Mei’s voice echoed in her head, soft and unguarded, and it unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

She didn’t notice Ruan Mei enter until the reflection appeared beside her in the glass.

“She’s still asleep,” Ruan Mei said quietly, voice light but tired. “No neural spikes. No stress patterns. Peaceful.”

Herta gave a small nod, not turning. “That’s something, at least.”

Ruan Mei crossed her arms. “You didn’t sleep.”

“I don’t require as much rest.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Herta’s fingers tightened against the console. “I reviewed the scan logs. Her neural mapping — it's unlike anything I've ever seen. Fragments of mature memory clusters… coexisting with childhood development pathways. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“It isn’t. Not with any current biotechnological method,” Ruan Mei agreed, voice low. “Which is why we need to consider the alternatives.”

Herta finally turned, her gaze sharp. “You’re not seriously entertaining time-loop theories, are you?”

“I’m entertaining all possibilities,” Ruan Mei replied calmly. “Because a child doesn’t invent a future star map, or hum a melody she’s never heard outside my own memories.”

There was a pause, then Ruan Mei added, quieter, “She looks at me like she’s already known me. Not just programmed recognition. Familiarity.”

Herta glanced down, jaw tight. “Familiarity can be coded. DNA carries more than we understand.”

“But what about the emotional recall? The dreams?”

Herta didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned and keyed in a restricted biometric protocol. The scanner chirped softly and then began its recalibration cycle — this time, searching not for anomalies in Elara’s neural activity, but for genetic composition beyond surface-level ID tags.

Both women stood still as the analysis ran.

Line by line, the data compiled. Markers. Sequences. Epigenetic echoes. Micro-chimerism. The final match percentages blinked to life on the screen.

Genetic Origin Match:

• Primary A Contributor: Herta (99.4% match)

• Primary B Contributor: Ruan Mei (99.1% match)

• Secondary Variation: Spontaneous recombinant fusion. Synthetic stabilizer unknown.

Ruan Mei exhaled shakily. “That’s not cloning.”

“No,” Herta said slowly. “That’s… parentage. Engineered. But not just cut-and-splice. This was crafted. Designed.”

“We never authorized this.”

“No,” Herta repeated, voice tightening. “We didn’t.”

The silence that followed was deeper than before — heavy with realization, with questions neither of them had language for yet.

Who made her? Why now? And why does she remember things that haven’t happened yet?

The console dimmed again.

Ruan Mei rubbed her temples and glanced toward the side room. “We should wake her soon. Let the day unfold naturally. No more tests today. Just… talking.”

Herta gave a reluctant nod. “If she starts remembering more, we record everything. Carefully. No interference.”

“Of course.”

A quiet beat passed.

Then Ruan Mei stepped away, her voice soft. “I’ll go.”

Light filtered gently into the room through a thin veil of starlight projections, still dancing faintly across the ceiling.

Ruan Mei knelt beside the low bed, brushing a loose curl from Elara’s cheek. The child slept deeply, curled beneath soft blankets in the room that was still new to her — but already beginning to feel like hers.

“Time to wake up, little star,” Ruan Mei whispered gently, her voice warm and patient.

Elara stirred, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks, before her violet eyes blinked open — dream-slow, but steady.

Elara blinked slowly, her lashes catching the soft shimmer of the ceiling’s projection. The patterns had changed since the night before — simpler now, more like fireflies floating across an unseen sky.

Ruan Mei smiled down at her. “Good morning, starlight.”

Elara yawned, stretching beneath the blanket. “It’s still early…”

“A little,” Ruan Mei admitted. “But I thought we could have breakfast together. Just us. You don’t have to do anything else today. No tests.”

Elara sat up, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Did I say something weird again yesterday?”

Ruan Mei hesitated, then shook her head gently. “No. You remembered something. That’s different.”

Elara tilted her head. “Is that… bad?”

“No,” Ruan Mei said. “Just surprising.”

There was a pause as Elara tucked the blanket around her lap, looking down at her small hands. Her voice came quiet, hesitant. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You haven’t,” Ruan Mei said softly. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Elara.”

“…But Mama Herta looked scared.”

The child’s words landed heavier than they should have. Ruan Mei exhaled slowly, glancing briefly toward the door — open just enough for Herta to be seen standing just outside, arms folded tightly across her chest. She was watching, listening, but not interfering.

“She wasn’t scared of you,” Ruan Mei said carefully. “She was… surprised. And maybe a little confused. Sometimes adults forget that surprises can be good, too.”

Elara looked unconvinced. “She doesn’t smile.”

“She does,” Ruan Mei said, with a quiet smile of her own. “Just not the way most people do. But I promise she cares.”

There was a silence. Then Elara asked, “Did you make me?”

The question hit harder than any data log or test result. Ruan Mei stilled, her breath caught mid-thought. She reached for the words slowly, gently, like catching a falling leaf.

“…No,” she said softly. “But you’re part of us. In a way we’re still trying to understand.”

Elara blinked up at her. “Then why do I remember both of you? From before?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ruan Mei admitted. “But that’s something we can figure out together. If you want to.”

Elara gave a tiny nod. “I want to know why my heart feels full when I see you. Like something fits. Like I’m supposed to be here.”

Ruan Mei brushed a hand through the girl’s hair, careful and slow. “Maybe that means you are.”

Behind them, Herta remained still in the doorway, her expression unreadable — but her gaze had softened.

“Can I still draw today?” Elara asked.

“Of course.”

“And can I stay with you?”

Ruan Mei smiled. “As long as you want.”

Elara leaned forward and wrapped her small arms around Ruan Mei’s neck without warning, pressing her cheek to her shoulder. Ruan Mei stilled for a heartbeat — then held her back, eyes closed.

Herta looked away.

Elara’s arms still wrapped loosely around Ruan Mei’s neck, warm and trusting, when a quiet knock echoed gently on the open doorway.

Herta stepped into the room, her voice low but precise. “There’s warm water ready. I assumed she might want to freshen up.”

Elara blinked drowsily. “I like baths.”

Ruan Mei smiled. “Perfect timing.”

As Ruan Mei gently guided Elara toward the bathing alcove — a softly lit corner with plush towels and lavender soap — Herta turned toward the closet.

Without comment, she opened the sliding doors and surveyed the three stacked crates inside. Each one was marked in clean script:
SET A – Warmwear & Soft Layers
SET B – Formal & Fitted
SET C – Play & Expression

Her fingers hovered briefly over the choices. Then, with quick, deliberate movements, she selected an ensemble from Set A — a soft lilac dress with puffed sleeves and a starlight-threaded sash, paired with pale silver tights and velvety boots lined in navy. From the top corner, she retrieved a small moon-shaped hair clip and placed it carefully atop the folded outfit.

She paused, eyes narrowing slightly, then reached for a second option — a simple cardigan in twilight blue. Just in case.

By the time Ruan Mei returned, toweling Elara’s damp curls and humming softly under her breath, the clothes were laid out neatly on the cushioned bench by the mirror.

“Did you pick these?” Ruan Mei asked, amused.

Herta, still standing nearby, didn’t look up. “They were the most sensible combination of softness, movement, and temperature balance.”

Ruan Mei gave her a knowing smile. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re practical,” Herta replied quickly.

Elara skipped over, wrapped in a towel that trailed behind her like a royal cape. Her eyes lit up when she saw the outfit. “It’s the purple one! It looks like sky candy!”

“I’m not familiar with that term,” Herta muttered, but her expression faltered into something softer.

“Let’s get you dressed,” Ruan Mei said gently, kneeling beside her. Ruan Mei helped Elara into the silver tights, then carefully pulled the soft lilac dress over her head. The starlight-threaded sash settled perfectly at her waist, and the velvety boots hugged her small feet like they’d been worn before.

Elara twirled once, her towel-cape forgotten on the floor. “It feels like a hug.”

Ruan Mei smiled, then reached for the small moon-shaped clip on the bench.

Before placing it, she paused — glancing over at Herta, who stood watching near the closet with arms folded.

“Would you like to do her hair?” Ruan Mei asked quietly, offering the brush and clip in her open palm.

Herta blinked. “Me?”

Elara turned around on her heels, hopeful. “Can you? Please?”

There was a long pause. Then, without speaking, Herta stepped forward and took the brush with an almost hesitant hand.

She knelt behind Elara, brushing through the damp curls with delicate, practiced movements. Not fast, not mechanical — just careful. Gentle.

Ruan Mei watched silently as Herta gathered a section of Elara’s hair into a soft half-up twist and clipped the moon pin into place with perfect precision.

“There,” Herta said softly. “Now it’s secure.”

Elara reached up and touched the clip with wide eyes. “I love it.”

“You look,” Herta said, her voice quieter now, “like yourself.”

The child beamed.

Ruan Mei extended a hand, her smile tender. “Breakfast?”

Elara nodded and reached for it without hesitation.

The dining "alcove" was small and simple, bathed in soft "morning light" streaming through the observatory window. Outside, distant stars winked faintly in the pale sky, though the day was just beginning.

Ruan Mei pulled out a chair for Elara, who climbed in with a happy smile. The table was set with fresh fruit, warm congee, and a delicate pot of jasmine tea. Nearby, one of Herta’s caretaking puppets moved quietly, refilling cups and tidying crumbs with silent efficiency.

Elara picked up a strawberry, holding it carefully like a treasure before taking a small bite.

“Do you usually eat like this?” she asked, her violet eyes bright.

Ruan Mei smiled. “Not often. We’re usually working or studying. But I thought today should be different.”

Elara nodded thoughtfully. “I like this.”

Herta, seated across from them, sipped her coffee quietly, watching Elara with an unreadable expression.

Elara broke the silence. “Do you think this can be a family?”

Ruan Mei and Herta exchanged a glance.

“Maybe,” Herta said finally, voice soft but firm. “If we keep sharing mornings like this.”

Elara grinned, cheeks flushed with hope.

After breakfast, the three of them rose together. Ruan Mei held Elara’s hand, and Herta brought up the rear, her eyes scanning the familiar corridors with a different kind of attention — wary, protective.

“This is the main hub,” Ruan Mei explained, leading Elara through the softly lit space station. “We spend a lot of time here. It’s where experiments are designed, tested, and where I do most of my research.”

Elara’s eyes widened as she took in the bioluminescent panels, softly pulsing with rhythmic light, and the shelves lined with delicate instruments humming with quiet energy.

Herta stopped beside a display case filled with crystalline star fragments — the same kind Elara had mentioned in her strange memory.

“These are what I called the ‘broken stars,’” Herta said softly, her gaze distant. “They’re unstable, dangerous. I keep them locked away for safety.”

Elara peeked inside the case. “They’re beautiful, but sad.”

“Sometimes beauty comes with risk,” Herta said.

Ruan Mei knelt beside Elara, pointing toward the large dome overhead. “That’s the observatory. We use it to track stars, but also to imagine futures. Sometimes, when I’m overwhelmed, I come here to find clarity.”

Elara’s gaze lingered on the glass, watching the faint cosmic patterns shimmer against the darkened ceiling.

“Will I learn to do what you do?” she asked softly.

“You already are,” Ruan Mei said, squeezing her hand gently.

Herta smiled faintly, stepping forward. “And we’ll be here to help.”

The three moved forward, the soft hum of the station surrounding them — a quiet promise of belonging, discovery, and something new waiting just beyond the horizon.

The gentle hum of the space station surrounded them as Ruan Mei, Herta, and Elara made their way through the softly lit corridors. The child’s small feet shuffled steadily, but each step was clearly a new effort.

After a few moments, Elara’s pace slowed. Her breaths grew shorter, and she glanced up with tired eyes.

“I… I can’t walk much more,” she whispered.

Without hesitation, Elara lifted her arms toward Herta.

Herta knelt and gathered her gently into her arms. Elara rested her head against Herta’s shoulder, seeking warmth and comfort.

Ruan Mei smiled softly. “You’re doing wonderfully, Elara. It’s okay to rest.”

Elara’s fingers curled around the fabric of Herta’s coat as she relaxed in her embrace.

The quiet of the station wrapped around them — a calm space for trust to grow.

Chapter Text

Elara hadn’t meant to wander.

One moment, she’d been quietly trailing behind Ruan Mei near the observatory, tracing the patterns on the wall with her fingers. The next, a flickering light down the corridor had caught her attention — a shimmer like the stars on her ceiling back in her room.

So she followed it.

The corridor curved left, then right. Soon the light panels grew dimmer, the familiar hum of the main station fading behind her. The walls here were quiet. Dustier. Less used.

She paused, the weight of the silence pressing in.

“…Mama?” she called gently. “Mama Ruan Mei?”

No response.

Her hands clutched the hem of her dress, heart beginning to race. She turned — too quickly — and her foot caught on the raised edge of a floor panel.

She stumbled.

The world tilted, and with a sharp cry, she fell forward. Her knees hit first, then her palms. A bright sting bloomed along her leg.

She gasped. Her lip trembled. Her tights were torn, and red began to smear just below the tear.

It hurt.

And suddenly, everything hurt. The silence, the cold, the way her chest tightened with each breath. Her eyes filled with tears. She curled forward, clutching her knee.

Footsteps rang out behind her — fast, sharp, echoing.

A woman’s voice followed. “Aeons—what on the station—?!”

Elara looked up with wide, tearful eyes just as a tall figure came into view — pink hair, a fluttering purple overcoat, and a lanyard that bounced as she skidded to a stop.

The woman crouched immediately, eyes flicking from Elara’s scraped knee to her trembling face.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright,” she said quickly. “You’re hurt, I see that. Deep breath. You’re safe now.”

Elara hiccupped. “I—got lost…”

The woman glanced down the corridor, then back. “This wing’s restricted during calibration cycles. No one’s supposed to be here. What were you—”

She stopped herself, softening.

“Never mind that. First things first.” She reached into her side pouch and pulled out a slim white med-kit. “This might sting just a little, alright?”

Elara gave a tiny nod, shoulders still shaking.

“I’m Asta,” the woman said gently as she cleaned the scrape with careful hands. “I run the operations on this station. And I definitely don’t recognize you.”

Once the bandage was pressed into place — a neat strip with pale gold stars — she sat back on her heels and looked Elara over again.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“…Elara,” the girl said softly.

“Elara,” Asta repeated, thoughtful. “Huh. That name’s not in any staff log, guest entry, or research file I’ve approved.”

She helped the girl to her feet, brushing off her dress. “Okay, mystery starlight. Let’s get you somewhere safe before someone has a panic attack.”

Elara clung gently to her hand. “Are you mad at me?”

Asta blinked. “What? No. I’m just… confused. Concerned. And definitely curious. But never mad at someone who scraped their knee trying to find their way.”

Elara sniffled. “I was trying to find the window. The big one. With the star maps.”

Asta smiled faintly, leading her back the way they came. “Well, you found a headache and a rescue protocol instead. But let’s call that an adventure.”

The lights of the corridor pulsed gently as Ruan Mei and Herta hurried through the central wing of the station, footsteps brisk against polished floors.

“She’s not in the observatory,” Herta said, scanning a holopanel mid-stride. “No sensor logs from the last eight minutes. Nothing in the greenhouse, either.”

“She was right behind me,” Ruan Mei said, voice tight with worry. “I only turned for a second. She must’ve followed the starlight reflections on the wall panels again. She always wanders toward light.”

Herta’s fingers flew across the interface. “She isn’t triggering standard proximity scans. Possibly another anomaly in her biometrics.”

“She’s not an anomaly,” Ruan Mei snapped. “She’s a child.”

“She’s both,” Herta said calmly. “Which is why we have to find her now.”

Just then, soft footfalls echoed from around the corner.

A figure appeared — quick steps, coat swishing, pink hair unmistakable.

Asta. And beside her, clutching her hand tightly, was Elara.

The girl’s eyes were puffy from tears, her steps uncertain, but she walked steadily under Asta’s gentle guidance.

“There you are,” Ruan Mei breathed, rushing forward as Elara let go of Asta’s hand and ran into her arms. “Thank the Aeons…”

“I got lost,” Elara mumbled, pressing her face into Ruan Mei’s shoulder. “I’m sorry…”

“You’re alright now,” Ruan Mei whispered, rocking slightly. “That’s what matters.”

Asta came to a stop a few feet away, arms crossed, but her tone was respectful. “Madame Herta. Madame Ruan Mei. I found her limping near Calibration Wing Delta. She’d tripped over a panel junction and scraped her knee — nothing serious. She’s patched up.”

“Thank you, Asta,” Herta said, stepping forward to inspect Elara herself. “You handled it well.”

“I did what protocol demanded,” Asta replied smoothly. “Though I’ll admit I was… caught off guard.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to Elara — then to Ruan Mei. “I wasn’t aware there was a child aboard the station.”

“There wasn’t,” Ruan Mei said quietly. “Until recently.”

Asta nodded slowly. “Understood. Then… permission to update our internal safety parameters?”

“Granted,” Herta said. “Mark her as a non-staff resident with limited access clearance. We’ll provide her ID profile shortly.”

Asta tapped a quick note into her datapad. “And should I prepare a formal notice for the rest of the department heads?”

“Not yet,” Ruan Mei said. “Let’s keep this quiet for now. Just until we understand more.”

Asta nodded again without protest. “Understood.”

Elara peeked over Ruan Mei’s shoulder, her voice quiet. “I’m sorry I scared you, Miss Asta…”

Asta blinked, a little caught off guard by the sincerity. She gave the girl a small, reassuring smile. “Apology accepted. Next time, just ask before you go exploring starlight corridors, alright?”

“I just wanted to see the stars up close,” Elara said, a little embarrassed.

“Then next time, I’ll show you the main observatory myself,” Asta said, adjusting her ID badge. “It’s much safer. And far less dusty.”

Elara smiled a little. “Okay.”

As Asta turned to leave, she paused. “She’s bright. Curious. And she learns fast.”

“She’s… one of a kind,” Ruan Mei replied softly, holding Elara close.

Asta nodded once, then glanced at Herta. “I’ll coordinate the clearance updates immediately, Madame.”

“Good,” Herta said. “And flag her presence as low-priority for now. We’ll escalate if needed.”

With a final nod, Asta turned and disappeared down the corridor — efficient as ever, but perhaps just a bit more thoughtful than usual.

Left alone, the quiet settled again around the trio.

Ruan Mei adjusted Elara in her arms. “Your knee—does it still hurt?”

“A little,” Elara admitted. “But not bad.”

“Then let’s get you some tea and a blanket,” Ruan Mei said with a gentle smile. “You’ve had a very big morning.”

Herta brushed a hand over Elara’s hair, absent but tender. “Next time, say something before you vanish.”

Elara nodded. “Okay.”

As they walked back toward their quarters, Herta trailing just behind them, Elara glanced up and whispered, “I liked her.”

Ruan Mei smiled. “I think she liked you too.”

Back in the private quarters assigned to them, the small dining table was now graced with a gentle spread: warm noodles in broth, steamed vegetables cut into tiny star shapes, and a bowl of cooling fruit slices. Elara sat with her legs swinging beneath the chair, happily spooning her food while humming something under her breath.

Ruan Mei leaned back in the nearby armchair, watching with soft eyes. Herta stood near the console, arms folded, gaze flicking between Elara and a floating schedule grid she’d pulled up on the holoscreen.

“She’s four,” Ruan Mei said after a moment, her voice thoughtful. “Chronologically and physically, at least.”

“Developmentally… fluctuating,” Herta noted. “Some cognitive markers are advanced. Others align with her age group. Emotional regulation is inconsistent — she still cries when startled, but handles complex instructions with surprising ease.”

“She needs structure,” Ruan Mei said gently. “Not lab structure — child structure. A rhythm to her day.”

Herta gave a small nod. “I was thinking the same.”

Ruan Mei smiled faintly. “We really are turning into caretakers, aren’t we?”

“Statistically inevitable, given our current circumstances.”

Ruan Mei leaned forward, voice low so Elara wouldn’t overhear. “What if we start with something simple? After lunch, a short nap. Then maybe… quiet activity time. She likes sketching. Maybe some constellation puzzles?”

Herta tapped a command into the holoscreen. “Thirty minutes nap, followed by forty-five minutes of guided play or calm exploration. Snacks at mid-shift.”

“Healthy ones,” Ruan Mei added. “No processed rations.”

“Obviously,” Herta said. “She already has a preference for fruit-based textures.”

Elara, still chewing happily, pointed at her bowl. “These noodles taste like stars.”

Ruan Mei chuckled. “Good stars or scary stars?”

“Warm ones,” Elara said, smiling.

Herta didn’t smile, but she paused in her typing.

Ruan Mei watched her a moment, then added quietly, “And maybe we rotate learning activities. Light reading modules in the morning, hands-on observation in the evenings. Let her get used to things slowly.”

Herta nodded again. “And play intervals every cycle. Coordination games. Music. Nothing overstimulating.”

“She might like to help in the greenhouse,” Ruan Mei offered. “Touching soil, watching things grow.”

“You’re assigning her to botany?”

“I’m giving her a moment to feel normal.”

Herta didn’t answer at first, then quietly said, “I’ll add it to the list.”

They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the quiet hum of the room and Elara softly slurping her noodles.

Then, unprompted, Elara turned in her seat and asked, “Can I have story time too?”

Ruan Mei blinked. “Of course.”

“Every day?”

Ruan Mei smiled warmly. “Every single day.”

Herta shifted her arms. “We’ll need a collection.”

“I have access to the station’s archival library,” Ruan Mei said, already pulling up the catalog. “I’ll curate a mix. Science fables. Ancient myths. Something with constellations.”

Elara’s eyes sparkled. “And songs?”

“Songs too,” Ruan Mei promised.

Herta stepped back from the screen. The schedule now glowed in soft blue light: gentle blocks of structure wrapped in care. Nap. Snack. Drawing. Reading. Exploration. Learning.

It didn’t look like a research protocol.

It looked like a life.

While Elara was curled up on a plush armchair under Ruan Mei’s shawl—half-listening as Ruan Mei gently read a story about starfish who dreamed of flying—Herta stepped out into the hall without a word, her coat swishing faintly behind her.

She paused just outside Elara’s room. The space was still tidy, functional… too functional. Sterile walls. Standard-issue storage crates. A plain cot with a starlight projector casting faint lights overhead.

Not unacceptable. But not enough.

With a flick of her wrist, Herta summoned one of her assistant puppets — its orb-like body blinking to attention with a soft chime.

“I want the following added to Room 03-17,” Herta said briskly, projecting a list onto its interface. “One low-standing bookshelf. Soft-wood frame. Rounded corners. Fill it with illustrated learning materials—level 1 through 3 comprehension. Include constellation fables, beginner logic puzzles, and poetic narratives. Emphasis on tactile engagement.”

The puppet chirped.

“Also: child-safe seating — one floor pillow, one adjustable cushion chair, both in non-primary, calming hues. Add a modular play mat with sound-dampening properties. Subtle textures, nothing overstimulating.”

Two more puppets arrived. Herta didn’t pause.

“Install a fold-down drawing desk and secure a filtered crayon set. Non-toxic. Replace the bedding—softer quilt, patterned if available. Include a weighted comfort plush. Medium size. She seems to favor fabric textures with thermal retention.”

The puppets spun off to fulfill their orders without question.

Behind her, Ruan Mei’s voice carried faintly through the wall: “…And the little comet twirled through the sky, laughing all the way…”

Herta’s gaze lingered on the doorway for a moment.

Then she added quietly, “Install a nightlight. Moon motif. Set it to low glow.”

The last puppet gave a chirp of confirmation before gliding silently down the corridor.

Within an hour, Room 03-17 no longer resembled a spare auxiliary chamber.

The cot had been replaced with a proper child’s bed, cushioned in pale lavender with a soft moon-patterned quilt. A twilight blue armchair sat near the window. The floor had a soft mat laid across its center, covered in softly shimmering constellations — playful, but not distracting.

A low bookshelf stood in the corner now, stocked with colorful spines and gently blinking interactive readers. On the desk lay neatly arranged crayons and drawing paper, a pencil holder shaped like a tiny telescope. A plush galaxy fox sat curled at the foot of the bed.

A soft, ambient glow bathed the corners of the room. Not sterile. Not clinical.

Lived-in.

Warm.

Elara wandered in sometime later, small feet padding across the mat, her violet eyes going wide.

She turned slowly in place, taking it all in. “It changed…”

Ruan Mei smiled from the doorway. “Herta thought you might need a room that’s really yours.”

Elara stepped up to the bookshelf and ran her hands along the spines. “There’s stories.”

Herta’s voice came from behind her, calm as ever. “They’re organized by subject and reading level. You may rearrange them if you wish. I’ve added blank labels for your use.”

Elara looked up at her, quiet for a moment — then ran over and wrapped her arms around Herta’s waist, burying her face in her coat.

Herta stood stiffly for a second… then rested a hand on Elara’s back.

“You forgot something,” Elara mumbled.

Herta blinked. “What?”

Elara pointed to the top of the bookshelf. “It needs a star.”

Ruan Mei laughed gently. “We’ll make one tomorrow. Maybe together?”

Elara grinned. “Okay.”

She clambered into her new bed, hugging the galaxy fox tight.

Ruan Mei dimmed the lights. Herta adjusted the projector to cycle through soft constellations.

And for the first time, Elara’s room didn’t feel borrowed.

It felt like hers.

Chapter Text

The hour was quiet — the kind of silence only deep space could offer, unbroken and infinite. Somewhere in the Herta Space Station, low systems hummed in passive cycles, the overhead lights dimmed to midnight levels, casting everything in soft blue glows.

Herta was alone in her office, reading something — or rather, pretending to. Her eyes kept drifting toward the clock. It was 2:12 a.m.

Her fingers hovered over her datapad, but she hadn’t turned the page in nearly ten minutes.

The chair creaked quietly as she shifted her weight.

Then—

A scream.

Not the startled kind, not even the fearful kind. It was raw. Murderous. A sound that belonged in a battlefield, not a child's throat. It tore through the stillness like a blade.

Herta stood before she consciously registered moving, her chair clattering behind her. The scream had come from the far wing — from Elara’s room.

She was out the door in seconds, coat flaring behind her, every echoing footstep ricocheting off the metal walls like gunfire.

No alarms. No system errors. Nothing on the station’s logs.

Just the sound of her own heart pounding.

The door slid open with a soft hiss.

Herta stepped into the darkened room, and what she saw stopped her in her tracks.

Elara sat upright in the middle of her bed — knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs, trembling so violently the mattress creaked beneath her. The blanket had slipped off the side of the bed, twisted and useless. Her nightgown clung to her back, soaked with sweat. Her bare feet dug into the sheets, trying to anchor her in place. It wasn’t working.

She was crying, but not the kind of crying children usually did. This wasn’t pouting or whining. It was pure panic — deep, chest-wracking sobs that made her tiny frame heave. Her breath caught in irregular gasps. Her shoulders jerked each time she tried to speak, but nothing came out but fragmented whimpers.

And her eyes—
Wide, unfocused, filled with unprocessed terror.

“Elara,” Herta said, her voice as even as she could manage. “It’s Mommy.”

Elara didn’t look up. Her gaze darted through the room like she was still seeing something that wasn’t there.

Herta moved closer. “You’re in your room. You're safe.”

She crouched beside the bed.

Elara jolted violently at the sound, flinching like she’d been struck.

Her breath hitched. “Don’t—don’t let them in—please—Mommy, they’re coming—!”

“No one’s coming,” Herta said softly, reaching out with steady fingers. “There’s no one here but me.”

Elara was still shaking her head, her arms tightening around herself. She curled forward as if she could hide inside her own ribs.

“I saw it,” she gasped out between sobs. “You were on the floor and your eyes weren’t blinking and—and Mama—she was—she was—” Her voice cracked. “There was blood everywhere—!”

Herta’s expression shifted. Her mouth pressed into a firm line, but she didn’t interrupt.

Instead, she climbed onto the bed slowly — carefully, so Elara could see her. She sat behind her and opened her arms.

“Come here.”

Elara hesitated. For one suspended moment, it was like she might recoil again.

But then she broke.

She turned and threw herself against Herta with a broken cry, arms wrapping around her waist, face pressing into her stomach. She gripped the fabric of Herta’s coat like it was the only solid thing in the world.

Herta drew her in with practiced slowness. One arm around her back. The other behind her head, fingers combing gently through sweat-damp hair.

Elara sobbed harder now that she was held — like the dam had finally broken. Each breath came out strangled, shallow, desperate.

Herta’s chin came to rest lightly atop Elara’s head.

“You’re okay,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost a murmur. “You're safe. It’s over.”

Elara didn’t respond, only whimpered something unintelligible against her. Her tears soaked through Herta’s shirt.

They stayed like that for minutes — long, shivering minutes in which Herta didn’t move or speak further, her entire presence devoted to keeping the little body in her arms from flying apart.

She would try to understand later.

Right now, Elara needed a mother. Not a genius. Not a genius' ghost.

Just her.

Red lights flickered overhead, casting long, dancing shadows that looked like creepy monsters. The air smelled like burnt cookies, but not in a good way—more like when you forget them in the oven and they turn black. Elara’s bare feet stuck to the cold, wet floor, like walking through yucky mud. She heard shouting—loud, angry voices that made her tummy feel twisty. “Stay behind me!” Mama’s voice was like when she’s really, really serious.

Elara turned and saw Mama standing super tall, like a giant, blocking a whole bunch of scary figures. They had glowing red eyes, like evil fireflies, and their uniforms were ripped and messy, like monsters had been playing dress-up. Ahead, Mommy was hurt. There was red all over her side, like she’d spilled her juice, but it wasn’t juice. Her bat was in her hands, but she looked like she was about to cry.

“They’re coming,” Mama shouted. “We have to stop them!” Suddenly, a pointy, shiny thing zipped through the air and poked Mama in the back.

“Mama!” Elara screamed, but Mama didn’t fall down. She turned to Elara, her face all white, but she still smiled, even though it looked like it hurt. She reached inside her coat and pulled out something tiny and sparkly blue, like a frozen star.

“Elara… catch this.” It flew to Elara and landed on her chest, super cold and bright, like an ice cube but glowing. Then everything went white—like being trapped inside a giant snowball, cold and never-ending.

When the white went away, Mommy and Mama were gone. Only quiet was left, but it was a scary quiet, like when you know something bad is hiding. Red was everywhere on the walls, like someone had painted with juice, but it wasn’t juice.

Elara was all alone, and a big, shadowy monster started to creep out of the corner, its red eyes getting closer and closer...

Elara’s sobs didn’t soften. They echoed in the quiet room like a fragile storm breaking apart. Her small hands clenched Herta’s sleeve as though holding on to the last thread of a fragile dream — one that promised safety, but trembled under the weight of what she’d seen.

“I saw it…” she whispered, voice cracking, barely audible but raw with fear. “You were gone, Mommy… blood was everywhere… and Mama—she… she threw something at me. Something blue. But then… then it was all white. So bright. Like a star exploding inside my chest. It hurt.”

Her eyes, wide and shimmering with tears, searched Herta’s face for answers — for a sign that it was all just a nightmare. That she could wake up and find everything safe and warm again.

But Herta’s steady gaze met hers — calm, unwavering.

“That was just a dream, Elara,” Herta said softly, careful to keep her voice gentle. “Dreams can feel very real — but they aren’t always true. I’m right here with you.”

Elara’s body shook, a sob wracking her fragile frame. She buried her face against Herta’s chest, her tears wetting the fabric.

Herta wrapped her arms tightly around her, fingers threading into Elara’s damp hair as if to physically hold the fear at bay. The warmth of her touch was a small rebellion against the cold shadows still lingering in Elara’s mind.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Herta murmured, pressing her lips gently to the top of Elara’s head. “But no matter what you see in your dreams, I promise you this — I am here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Elara lifted her tear-streaked face just enough to whisper, voice trembling, “But what if next time… next time it isn’t a dream? What if it’s real?”

Herta’s heart ached. This child had seen horrors no child should ever know — had glimpsed a darkness that even she struggled to understand.

“I don’t know everything,” Herta admitted quietly. “But I do know this: You are not alone. We’re a team — you, me, and Mama. And no matter what, we face things together.”

Elara’s breathing slowed, the sobs less jagged.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Elara whispered, “I don’t want to lose you. Not you. Not Mama.”

Herta tightened her arms around her one last time and promised without hesitation, “You won’t. Not while I’m here.”

Slowly, the trembling lessened.

The night pressed on — heavy, but less frightening.

The sobs had slowed to soft hiccups, but Elara’s small frame still trembled with residual fear. Herta knew she needed something more — something to settle the storm within her little body.

Gently, she shifted, easing Elara carefully into a sitting position against the pillows.

“I’m going to get you something,” Herta said softly, smoothing the tangled strands of hair from Elara’s face.

Elara looked up, eyes still glassy but trusting. “What?”

“Warm milk,” Herta answered with a small, almost shy smile. “It helps with sleep. It’s gentle.”

Elara nodded slowly, and Herta rose from the bed, her footsteps quiet on the cold floor as she crossed the room.

The replicator whirred softly as she set the parameters, watching the warm liquid pour into a small, child-sized glass. The soft golden glow of the milk contrasted with the dim blue light of the room.

Returning to the bed, Herta settled beside Elara, holding the glass steady as the little girl took small, tentative sips.

Her hands trembled slightly, but Herta steadied the glass with careful fingers, her eyes never leaving Elara’s face.

“There you go,” Herta murmured. “Take your time.”

Elara’s lips curled into a faint, tired smile for the first time since the nightmare began.

As the warm milk settled in her stomach, her eyelids grew heavier, the comfort washing over her like a gentle tide.

Herta wrapped an arm around her once more, holding her close.

“You’re safe here,” she whispered, voice steady and warm. “I’m here.”

Elara leaned into her, the last of her trembling slowing to quiet breaths.

The nightmare’s shadow was still there, lurking — but for now, the warmth of milk, the softness of Herta’s embrace, and the steady beat of her heart were enough.

The soft glow from the ceiling stars flickered gently, casting shimmering constellations across the quiet room. Elara nestled closer into Herta’s embrace, her small hands clutching the fabric of her coat like a lifeline—desperate for something solid in a world that had suddenly become terrifyingly fragile.

Her voice was a fragile whisper, hesitant but needing to be heard. “Mommy… before Mama fell… she threw something at me.”

Herta’s breath caught for a brief moment, but her voice stayed calm, steady—an anchor in the dark. “What was it, Elara? Can you remember?”

Elara’s violet eyes squeezed shut as she fought to pull the memory from the depths of her frightened mind. “It was… small. Blue. Like it was alive. Warm—so warm… It touched my chest and… everything went white. So bright. Like the sun inside me. It hurt, but it was… like it was trying to keep me safe.”

Herta’s fingers tightened gently on Elara’s shoulder, as if grounding her own swirling thoughts. She could feel the gravity of the moment—the weight of something important buried deep in that blue glow, something tied to Elara’s very existence. But for now, she focused only on Elara’s trembling form in her arms.

“Blue and warm,” Herta repeated softly, voice barely above a murmur. “Like a shield, maybe. Something to protect you.”

Elara’s gaze flickered upward, searching Herta’s face with a fragile hope. “Do you think Mama did it on purpose? Like… she meant for it to save me?”

Herta swallowed hard, heart tightening with an ache she rarely let herself show. “She did. Mama loves you more than anything. She would do anything to keep you safe, even if it means… things we don’t understand yet.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the steady rhythm of their breathing. The nightmare still lingered, heavy and dark, but for the first time, a small seed of hope took root.

“You’re safe now,” Herta whispered, voice warm and steady. “No matter what, I’m here. Nothing can hurt you while I’m with you.”

Elara let out a soft, shaky sigh, the tremors in her body easing as she pressed her cheek against Herta’s chest. The warmth of Herta’s heart beating beneath her ear was a promise—a shield stronger than any glowing blue light.

SILENCE.

The quiet was heavier now, not with fear, but with exhaustion — the slow, deep silence that wraps around everything in the earliest hours of morning.

Elara had stopped crying, though her arms were still tightly wrapped around Herta’s waist, her head nestled under Herta’s chin like she’d always belonged there. Her breath had steadied into soft little puffs, and though she hadn’t fallen asleep, she had stopped trembling.

Herta remained still, her body a quiet barrier between Elara and the ghosts of her dream.

She shifted just enough to reach for her datapad on the bedside table. The screen lit dimly in the dark.

03:57 a.m.
Incoming lab report: Synaptic Echo Feedback, Stage IV – complete.
Active user: Ruan Mei.

Her fingers hesitated before she typed a message.

Herta: She had a nightmare. I’m staying with her.
Ruan Mei: …Is she all right?
Herta: Not yet. But she will be.
Ruan Mei: Thank you, love. I’ll finish up soon. Don’t wake her.

Herta blinked.

She stared at the word for a moment longer than necessary, as if it might vanish if she looked away.

Her ears flushed pink.

The datapad made a soft sound as she placed it back on the table a little too quickly, eyes deliberately fixed elsewhere. She didn’t respond again.

Instead, her gaze drifted to Elara’s face. Even half-awake and swollen from crying, the girl had an uncanny calm to her now, her tiny fingers still gripping Herta’s coat like it was armor.

“Still awake?” Herta asked quietly.

Elara murmured something unintelligible, her voice a muffled hum against Herta’s chest.

“I thought so,” Herta said, her voice unusually warm.

She leaned her head back against the wall and began to speak in that quiet, matter-of-fact tone she used when lecturing — not out of coldness, but because precision, to her, was comfort.

“Do you see the one above us?” she said, pointing at a dim constellation on the ceiling projection. “That’s Cursa. It’s one of the brightest stars in Eridanus. Seventy-nine light years from the station, give or take.”

Elara didn’t lift her head, but she nodded slowly against Herta.

“It’s too far to ever reach in a single lifetime. But its light still finds us. That’s how long it lasts — even after the source is gone.”

Elara’s grip tightened slightly.

“Even if something disappears,” Herta added gently, “its light can stay behind. Guiding things. Keeping them warm.”

A long pause.

Then Elara’s voice, barely audible: “Like Mama?”

Herta closed her eyes briefly. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly like that.”

Time passed slowly in the hush of early morning.

Elara hadn’t spoken for a while. Her body had stopped shaking, and her breathing had grown even, but Herta could tell — by the way she still clung to her — that she was awake. Just quiet. Processing.

She felt Elara shift slightly, her small fingers curling more tightly into the folds of Herta’s coat. Her voice, when it came, was so soft it barely stirred the air.

“Mommy…?”

“Yes?” Herta replied, not looking down — her voice low, like she was afraid of breaking the stillness around them.

A pause. Then:

“If you disappeared… I think I’d break.”

The words landed like gravity, heavier than they had any right to be. Herta didn’t respond at first. She stared up at the ceiling projection, now slowly dimming as it cycled into the 5 a.m. fade. One of the stars blinked out.

She lowered her gaze to Elara — this tiny girl clinging to her like she was the last solid thing in a world full of shadows. She felt Elara’s breath against her chest. The way her heart stuttered when Herta didn't answer immediately.

It would be easy to offer logic. Reassurance grounded in probability, not emotion.

But for once… Herta didn’t want to be easy.

“I don’t plan on disappearing,” she said quietly. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not while you need me.”

Elara pressed her face deeper into Herta’s chest.

“You mean it?” she whispered.

“I do,” Herta said. “And even if something did happen… I would find a way back to you. That’s a promise.”

Elara let out a long, shaky breath. Her arms relaxed — not letting go, but no longer clinging like she might fall without Herta’s weight beside her.

Herta’s hand slid gently over her back in long, soothing strokes.

“You’re not going to break,” Herta added softly. “Not while I’m around to help you put the pieces back.”

For the first time since the scream, Elara let her eyes close.

The warmth between them settled like a blanket in its own right — more real than the bedding that had slipped to the floor during Elara’s panic.

The girl was quiet now, her breathing deep and steady. One hand rested loosely against Herta’s side, the other still tangled in the fabric of her coat, though not with the desperate grip it had carried earlier.

Herta stayed still, eyes open, fixed on a point across the dark room. She’d been intending to slip away once Elara drifted off. To return to her own quarters. To document what had happened. To analyze it with precision and reason.

But when she gently, experimentally shifted her arm, Elara stirred.

Not awake. Not fully. But her brow furrowed, and a soft, pleading sound escaped her lips — not words, just a frightened breath shaped like please don’t.

Herta sighed quietly and relaxed back against the headboard. Elara, in response, settled in again with a little sigh of her own.

So that was that.

Herta wasn’t going anywhere.

For a moment, she kept her eyes open, simply watching Elara’s face. The shadows cast by the dim starlight danced across her cheekbones. Her lashes still wet. A faint crease between her brows, even in sleep.

So small. So fragile. And yet—so deeply tethered to her.

Without meaning to, Herta reached up and brushed a few strands of hair from Elara’s forehead. Her fingers lingered, tucking the locks gently behind one ear.

“You are far more complicated than I planned for,” she murmured under her breath. “But you’re mine.”

She didn’t mean it in ownership. Not in the way she might speak about a project or a prototype. She meant it the way her chest hurt when Elara cried. The way she’d felt hollow hearing that scream. The way Elara had looked at her like she was the only thing holding the world together.

Her eyes grew heavier.

The room was warm. Quiet. Elara was safe.

And for once, despite herself, Herta didn’t want to leave.

She let her head tip slowly to the side until her cheek rested against Elara’s soft hair. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The last thing she felt before sleep took her was the rise and fall of Elara’s breathing — a gentle rhythm, syncing perfectly with her own.

The door to Elara’s room slid open with a soft hiss — quiet, but not silent enough to be missed by the sensitive ears of a child.

But no one stirred.

Ruan Mei stepped into the threshold and paused, blinking against the warm, pinkish hue of the station’s artificial morning. The lights were still in their low dawn phase, casting long shadows that softened the edges of every object in the room. Her hand was still wrapped around her datapad, knuckles stiff from hours of nonstop research and simulations. Her eyes, rimmed in tiredness, blinked slowly as they adjusted to the scene in front of her.

And then she saw them.

Her steps stopped entirely.

Herta was fast asleep — genuinely, deeply asleep — lying on her side atop the star-patterned bedding, her arm curved protectively around the small form of the girl cradled against her. One of Elara’s hands was still curled into the fabric of Herta’s coat near her heart, her face half-buried in the crook of Herta’s neck.

The two of them looked tangled together in a way that defied the usual clinical space Herta occupied.

Ruan Mei didn’t speak. She didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

For a long moment, she simply watched.

She hadn’t expected this. Not entirely. She had known Herta would watch over Elara — logically, practically — but not like this. Not with her entire body bent protectively around a terrified child. Not with her face so soft, so unguarded in sleep, her lashes casting faint shadows over skin normally cold under station light.

Elara shifted slightly in her sleep, pressing herself closer with a tiny, trusting sigh.

And Ruan Mei’s heart clenched.

They looked like a painting. A strange, imperfect family born of science and chaos and something neither of them had ever admitted out loud.

She crossed the room silently, the datapad finally lowering to her side. Her shoes made no sound on the smooth flooring. There was a blanket on the nearby chair — the thick, woven one Elara had chosen herself during one of her first station days, soft and slightly oversized for her tiny frame. Ruan Mei reached for it with gentle hands.

She unfolded it and, with the care of someone handling a glass experiment mid-process, she draped it slowly across the sleeping pair.

First over Herta’s narrow shoulders, then down across Elara’s small legs. The blanket pooled softly around them, a gentle shield against the chill beginning to seep in with the station’s early-hour cycle.

Herta murmured something incoherent in her sleep but didn’t wake.

Elara made a small, almost inaudible sound and nestled deeper into her arms.

Ruan Mei stood there a while longer, her gaze lingering not just on them — but between them. On the invisible thread that had taken root and was growing stronger each day. Not an experiment. Not an equation. Something warmer. Something unruly.

She hadn’t meant to feel this much. She hadn’t meant for either of them to.

Her eyes softened. Her shoulders relaxed for the first time all night.

She leaned down slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Elara’s forehead with the backs of her fingers. Then she let her touch drift lightly to Herta’s hand, where it rested above Elara’s spine.

“I told you,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “You have a heart. Even if it took a star-born girl to pull it out of you.”

She let her fingers linger there for another second, then straightened and walked slowly toward the door.

Just before it slid closed behind her, she turned back for one last look.

Elara, sound asleep, curled like a child who’d never known fear.

Herta, still and quiet, her fingers twitching faintly as if, even in sleep, she refused to let go.

Ruan Mei smiled — soft, warm, and bittersweet.

Then the door shut with a quiet hum, sealing the room in gentle silence once more.

The ceiling projection flickered slightly, stars shifting as the morning simulation crept onward.

And in that quiet corner of the universe — for the first time in what felt like a very long time — everything was still.

Chapter Text

The station had long since entered its daylight cycle, though Elara’s room remained dim and still, tucked beneath soft starlight projections and the quiet hush of artificial morning.

It was nearly 10 a.m.

Ruan Mei stood at the foot of the bed with a folded set of soft clothes cradled in her arms — a fresh shirt in soft violet hues, leggings with tiny embroidered stars near the knees, and a fluffy pair of socks Elara had once declared “the warm kind.” Her other hand hovered near the edge of the mattress, not quite touching either of the figures curled together in sleep.

Elara was nestled tightly into Herta’s side, her head tucked beneath the crook of her chin, one small hand still tangled in the fabric of Herta’s long coat. Her expression was soft now—peaceful, even—with the last traces of her tears dried against her cheeks. Herta, for her part, had fallen asleep half-reclined against the headboard, glasses slipping slightly down her nose, her features calm and entirely unguarded in the rarest of ways.

It looked like the aftermath of something delicate—like seeing a cracked vessel still holding water, against all odds.

Ruan Mei’s gaze softened.

She hadn’t come to wake either of them. She’d only wanted to check in.

But now… it was time.

With practiced care, she leaned in and brushed her fingers gently over Elara’s forehead. Her voice came soft and honey-smooth.

“Elara… starlight. Time to wake up.”

Elara stirred faintly, shifting against Herta. Her violet eyes blinked open slowly, blearily adjusting to the pale morning light. Her voice was rough with sleep.

“Mama…?”

“I’m here,” Ruan Mei said. “Good morning.”

The child’s gaze flicked upward, then downward—landing on Herta’s arm curled protectively around her. She didn’t move right away, only whispered:

“She didn’t leave.”

“No,” Ruan Mei said gently. “She stayed with you all night.”

Elara nodded. Her small fingers flexed once against Herta’s coat. “She was warm.”

Ruan Mei smiled at that, brushing a bit of Elara’s tangled hair back. “She still is. But she’s very tired. Let’s let her rest a little longer, alright?”

Elara hesitated.

“I brought you some clothes,” Ruan Mei added, holding up the bundle. “We’ll go to my room for a warm bath and get you dressed. Quietly. Mommy won’t even stir.”

That seemed to tip the balance. Elara released Herta’s coat slowly, her fingers lingering just a second longer before falling away.

“Okay…”

Ruan Mei bent down, arms open. “Come here, little star.”

Elara shifted carefully, letting Ruan Mei lift her without protest. She leaned against her shoulder immediately, her small arms wrapping loosely around her neck in sleepy trust. Her breath was warm against Ruan Mei’s collarbone, her body still heavy with sleep and remnants of dreams.

As they exited the room, Ruan Mei glanced back once more. Herta hadn’t stirred. Her hand still lay open on the blanket, exactly where Elara had been.

Ruan Mei’s quarters were far more refined than most on the station—curated with quiet elegance and personalized care. A string of crystal-diffused lights ran along the upper molding of the ceiling, casting delicate reflections across pale ivory walls. A shelf displayed hand-lacquered trinkets from ancient dramas and glass beakers repurposed to hold dried flowers. Her embroidery hoop rested on the corner of a chair, half-finished petals frozen mid-stitch.

She brought Elara to the bathroom, where gentle floral scents already filled the air—her own blend of calming botanicals, tailored to settle the nervous system without dulling it.

The tub had already been drawn.

“Here we are,” Ruan Mei said softly, setting the clothes aside and kneeling to test the water one last time. “Just the way you like it. A little extra lavender today.”

Elara didn’t resist as Ruan Mei gently undressed her, setting the rumpled nightgown aside. She helped her into the bath with slow, careful movements. The water lapped quietly around Elara’s legs as she sat, knees tucked close to her chest.

For a moment, she didn’t say anything.

Ruan Mei knelt beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the warm water and wringing it out before gently running it across Elara’s arms. The child didn’t flinch. If anything, she leaned into the touch.

The silence between them was soft. Intentional.

Not everything needed to be spoken just yet.

Ruan Mei simply hummed a quiet melody—something traditional and slow—as she worked shampoo gently through Elara’s hair, her fingers moving with practiced tenderness.

“You did very well last night,” she murmured. “You were very brave.”

Elara closed her eyes, the water beading across her cheeks. “I don’t feel brave.”

“You don’t have to,” Ruan Mei said with a smile in her voice. “You just have to keep going. That’s more than enough.”

A small nod.

The warm water and gentle rhythm of Ruan Mei’s hands began to work their quiet magic. Some of the tension in Elara’s shoulders melted away, replaced by something drowsy and pliant.

When the bath was done, Ruan Mei wrapped her in a thick, towel-soft robe and carried her to the bedroom, setting her on the edge of the bed. She dressed her slowly, letting Elara help with the sleeves and socks where she could, praising her gently each time.

“There. All clean,” Ruan Mei said, adjusting the little star clip she fastened at Elara’s collar. “Just in time for breakfast.”

Elara looked up at her, violet eyes clearer now. “Will Mommy be there?”

“Not yet,” Ruan Mei said softly. “She’s still sleeping. But we can save her a seat.”

The girl gave a small, sleepy smile.

Then, without warning, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Ruan Mei’s middle.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mama,” she said into her coat.

Ruan Mei froze for a second—then bent down and hugged her back, one hand smoothing over the child’s damp hair.

“I always will be, starlight,” she whispered.

And for the first time that morning, Elara’s arms held tightly on their own.

The gentle hum of the replicator filled Ruan Mei’s quiet kitchen (well Herta's, really, Ruan Mei doesn't trust Herta to enter the kitchen no matter what) as the scent of honeyed toast and warm milk drifted through the air. The starfield beyond her viewing window had faded into a pale halo of artificial daylight, soft and gold-tinted. A vase of pale pink flowers — fresh, grown in her lab’s biosphere — sat at the edge of the table.

Elara sat in one of the tall cushioned chairs, swinging her legs as she took small, sleepy bites of her toast. She looked freshly bathed, her hair still damp and combed neatly, dressed in violet leggings and a soft long-sleeved tunic with tiny embroidered constellations on the sleeves. Her socks were mismatched on purpose — a tiny sun on one, a crescent moon on the other.

Across from her, Ruan Mei stirred her tea gently, her other hand resting beside a second cup she’d prepared just in case. She watched Elara with quiet affection, noting the girl’s more subdued energy. Her body was calm, but her thoughts were clearly still whirring.

“Mama?” Elara asked after a few moments.

“Yes, my star?”

Elara looked down at her milk, then back up with that same serious tilt of her head she always had when she was about to ask something big. “The blue light from my dream… It came from you. Right before you got hurt. Do you think it was real?”

Ruan Mei didn’t answer immediately. She set her spoon aside and leaned forward, elbows on the table, giving Elara her full attention.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that sometimes dreams show us things we aren’t ready to see when we’re awake. That doesn’t make them less important.”

Elara pressed a hand over her chest, just above her heart. “It felt like it… it knew me. Like it wanted to save me.”

“Then maybe it did,” Ruan Mei said softly. “Maybe it was part of something — something meant to keep you safe, no matter what.”

Elara looked down again, chewing slowly.

There was a brief, warm silence.

Then the door hissed open.

Both turned.

Herta stepped into the room with the dazed, uneven walk of someone still caught in the fog of sleep. Her long coat was rumpled, her hair slightly tousled with one ribbon half-loose and hanging over her shoulder. Her eyelids barely managed to stay open, and her expression was blank — the kind of blank that came from muscle memory, not consciousness.

“Herta?” Ruan Mei said softly, surprised.

Herta didn’t reply.

She walked over to them without a word, the heels of her boots oddly quiet on the polished floor. She reached the table, paused behind Elara, and — without hesitation — leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

Then she turned to Ruan Mei, placed a gentle kiss atop her hair, just behind her temple… and sat down like nothing had happened.

Both Ruan Mei and Elara blinked.

Herta, now in a chair beside them, rubbed her eyes once, yawned, and finally opened her mouth.

“…Morning.”

Her voice was hoarse. Dry. Half-buried in exhaustion.

Elara was the first to break the stunned silence.

“You kissed Mama and me,” she said matter-of-factly, still chewing her toast.

Ruan Mei’s face was already flushed a delicate shade of pink, her hand lifting to touch the spot just above her ear where Herta’s lips had landed. She didn’t speak.

Herta, now blinking more awake, froze.

“I did?” she said, like she genuinely wasn’t sure.

Elara nodded.

Herta blinked again. She slowly lowered her face into her hands.

Ruan Mei covered her mouth to hide the smile that was absolutely trying to escape.

“I was asleep,” Herta muttered into her palms. “I was clearly asleep. My neural pathways were not—fully online.”

“Does that mean you didn’t mean it?” Elara asked, chewing another bite. “Because I liked it.”

Herta groaned softly.

Ruan Mei finally let out a quiet laugh — not teasing, not mocking. Just full of light.

“I think she meant it, Elara,” she said gently. “She just didn’t expect to do it with witnesses.”

Herta lifted her head just enough to give her a narrow-eyed glare over her fingers. Ruan Mei smiled sweetly in return.

Elara took another bite of toast and tilted her head.

“You’re both blushing,” she observed with clinical curiosity. “Is it because you’re embarrassed?”

Herta immediately looked away, jaw tight, while Ruan Mei let out a soft breath through her nose and said, “Yes, darling. Very much so.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Ruan Mei said, glancing sideways at Herta, “sometimes feelings sneak up on grown-ups too.”

Herta muttered something that sounded like emotional sabotage and took the tea Ruan Mei had left beside her, sipping it with far more intensity than necessary.

Ruan Mei’s fingers tightened slightly around her teacup. Her cheeks were still flushed — but now her smile was steady. Warm.

And for a brief moment, the room was perfectly quiet. Not because no one had anything to say, but because, for once, nothing needed to be said.

They were together. That was enough.

The breakfast plates had been cleared away, but none of them had moved from the table.

Elara sat sideways in her chair now, knees curled up against her chest, her chin resting thoughtfully atop them. Ruan Mei and Herta sat on either side of her, both nursing now-cool tea. The air had grown quieter, thicker — like the light of mid-morning had dimmed just slightly, as if it too was listening.

Elara’s eyes weren’t sleepy anymore. They were distant — focused on something far past the walls of Ruan Mei’s quarters. Something she couldn’t quite name.

“Mommy?” she asked softly, without looking up.

Herta lowered her cup a fraction, lips still touching the rim. “Yes?”

“If someone disappears… like really disappears,” Elara said, her voice slow and quiet, “can they ever come back?”

Ruan Mei turned her head, startled by the weight of the question. Herta didn’t respond immediately.

“You mean… like in a dream?” Herta asked.

“No.” Elara finally looked at her. “Like in real life. If someone’s… gone. But they were important. Could they still come back? Or change into something else?”

Her small fingers fidgeted with the hem of her tunic. “Even if they don’t have a body anymore?”

Silence.

A breath passed.

Herta's violet eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but calculation. She didn’t answer with words right away — instead, she glanced at Ruan Mei.

The scientist met her gaze, and something passed between them in that look — understanding, hesitation, maybe fear.

Ruan Mei leaned forward and took Elara’s hand gently.

“I think,” she said softly, “that sometimes, when people disappear… their energy doesn’t. It changes. Moves. Becomes part of something else. Something bigger.”

“Like a star?” Elara asked.

Ruan Mei smiled faintly. “Yes. Or something… new.”

Herta spoke next, her voice low but precise. “There’s a theory,” she said. “A working one, anyway. That under extreme conditions — emotional, cosmic, or both — a being can change form. Evolve. Even ascend.”

“Ascend?”

“Become something beyond what they were,” Ruan Mei clarified. “It’s rare. Dangerous. Sometimes beautiful. Sometimes… catastrophic.”

Elara tilted her head, brows furrowing. “Like… like if someone died, but their soul became a new star?”

Herta gave a small nod. “Or a concept. Or a memory. Or even… a new kind of life.”

There was a long pause.

Then Elara asked, barely audible: “Is that what happened to me?”

Herta’s expression didn’t flinch — but Ruan Mei’s hand tightened slightly over Elara’s.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” she asked carefully.

Elara’s fingers tapped her chest lightly. “Mama threw that blue light at me. And then everything went white. It felt like something broke. And then… something else started.”

Ruan Mei swallowed. “You remember that much?”

“Mm-hm.” Elara’s voice was steady. “Sometimes it feels like I was… already somewhere else before I came here. I don’t know where, though. It’s like trying to remember a song you forgot.”

Herta’s mind whirled with silent calculations — synaptic echoes, neural imprinting, dimensional displacement. But none of that was what Elara needed to hear.

She reached out, brushing a strand of dark hair behind the girl’s ear, careful and slow.

“You’re here now,” Herta said gently. “With us.”

Elara nodded, leaning lightly into the touch.

But her voice came back with that same strange clarity: “If I’m… something new now, does that mean I used to be something else?”

Neither woman answered.

Instead, Ruan Mei let out a quiet breath and said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. About where you came from.”

Herta looked at her, surprised — but didn’t stop her.

Ruan Mei’s thumb brushed gently over Elara’s knuckles.

“There’s a word,” she said softly. “An acronym, really. N.O.V.A. It stands for New Organic Viable Ascendant. It’s… a classification we use for breakthroughs that go beyond life as we know it.”

Elara blinked. “Like a title?”

“In a way,” Ruan Mei said. “You’re very special, Elara. Not just because we love you. But because… you may be the first truly viable lifeform created not just to live — but to evolve. To become something greater. To protect life. To carry memory. Maybe even to defy the things that terrify the rest of us.”

Elara was quiet for a long time. Her eyes shimmered — not with tears, but something deeper. A kind of awe. And maybe fear.

“Is that why I see things that haven’t happened?” she asked.

Herta and Ruan Mei didn’t answer that one either.

Not yet.

Instead, Ruan Mei pulled her gently into a hug, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“You’re safe,” she whispered. “No matter what you were meant to be… You’re ours now.”

“And we’re yours,” Herta added. “Don’t forget that part.”

Elara rested her cheek against Ruan Mei’s shoulder. “N.O.V.A…” she repeated under her breath. “It sounds like a star.”

“It is,” Herta said softly. “The kind that bursts with so much light, it remakes everything around it.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Elara’s mouth.

And then she whispered:

“Maybe I’m not broken.”

Ruan Mei closed her eyes. Herta exhaled.

“No,” they said at the same time. “You’re becoming.”

The soft hum of the lab’s life support systems was almost hypnotic as Ruan Mei moved quietly through the dimly lit research wing of the Herta Space Station. The usual sterile hum of machinery and filtered air was a comfort in this part of the station, but tonight it felt heavier — laden with unspoken tension and questions that clawed at the edges of her mind. Elara’s nightmare, the glowing blue light, the brightness that followed — none of it fit into any neat scientific explanation. It was as if the child carried a secret far too vast for the cosmos they occupied.

Ruan Mei paused at the end of a narrow hallway. Ahead, the glow from a console screen illuminated the faint shape of a large cabinet, partially concealed by stacked data terminals and equipment crates. She hadn’t noticed it before — a small, unassuming folder resting on the top shelf, its edges crisp and sealed with a delicate lock that clicked quietly when she lifted it. A barely visible label caught her eye in the low light: “Experiment N.O.V.A.”

Her breath hitched. The acronym was familiar — something she had encountered in passing, but never fully understood until now.

Her fingers trembled as she peeled back the folder’s protective cover and pulled out the first page. It was filled with detailed diagrams, genetic blueprints, and scanned images — none resembling any known human or organic life she had ever studied. The diagrams showed complex cellular structures, branching patterns that hinted at synthetic biology combined with organic traits. Notes scrawled in precise handwriting referenced terms like “gene editing,” “cognitive imprinting,” and “simulated consciousness.”

Ruan Mei’s eyes darted to a file titled: “Subject: Elara — New Organic Viable Ascendant Prototype.”

The pages outlined the process — a delicate, precise creation method, combining advanced bioengineering with temporal data algorithms. The experiments detailed weren’t just about birth or biology — they involved something deeper, something akin to ascension. Elara was not simply a child; she was a living experiment, designed to become more than what the universe typically allowed.

Her heartbeat quickened, and a flush rose across her cheeks. A mix of emotions roiled inside her — awe at the sheer magnitude of what Elara was, fear for the weight the child bore, and a fierce protectiveness that no amount of scientific knowledge could quell.

Ruan Mei closed the folder slowly, her hands still trembling. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal wall beside the cabinet. The soft whir of the station’s systems faded around her, replaced by the thundering of her own thoughts.

Love.

The word rose unbidden in her mind, strange and unwelcome — yet undeniable. She swallowed hard, chastising herself for the intrusion, and hurriedly slid the folder back onto the shelf. The lock clicked closed with finality.

Meanwhile, somewhere else in the station, Elara’s small feet padded along the polished floors of the public corridors, her hand held securely in the firm grip of Asta. The assistant, a kind-faced woman with nimble movements, was showing her the wonders of the Herta Space Station — a sprawling labyrinth of science and mystery.

“Here’s where the garden domes are,” Asta said brightly, pointing toward the sunlit glass atriums visible through the corridor’s windows. “Lots of plants from Earth and beyond. You’ll see them soon — Herta says the bioluminescent orchids there remind her of stars.”

Elara’s violet eyes sparkled with curiosity. The nightmares from the night before felt distant now, replaced by a cautious wonder as she took in the hum of life and technology around her.

Asta led her through corridors lined with glowing panels and softly pulsing machines, explaining the stations’ purpose with practiced patience. Elara listened carefully, asking quiet questions, occasionally stopping to press her palm against the smooth walls, fascinated by the delicate vibrations beneath.

“Do you like it here?” Asta asked, smiling gently.

Elara nodded, her lips curving into a small smile. “It’s… big. And quiet. And sometimes it feels like it’s watching me.”

Asta chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Elara’s forehead. “It does, in a way. But it’s friendly — the station’s alive too, in its own way.”

As they turned a corner near the research wing, Asta paused and glanced back at Elara, noticing the girl’s thoughtful expression.

“You’re very brave, you know,” she said quietly. “Not many kids could handle everything you’ve been through.”

Elara shrugged, looking down at her feet. “I’m still scared sometimes.”

“That’s okay,” Asta replied firmly. “Scared means you care. It means you’re human.”

The two shared a quiet moment, the station’s gentle hum wrapping around them like a soft blanket.

The lab had never felt this quiet before — not sterile, not cold — but silent, in a way that made every heartbeat sound louder than it should. Ruan Mei’s fingers hovered over the last page of the folder before she quietly closed it, her hands trembling just slightly as she slid the documents back into their case and re-engaged the magnetic lock.

N.O.V.A. – New Organic Viable Ascendant.
Subject: Elara.
Viable. Born. Designed.
But not the first.

She took a slow breath and pressed a palm to her temple.

The three of them had eaten together only an hour ago — a warm, quiet moment full of sleepy chatter and soft smiles. Herta had kissed both their heads without thinking. Elara had asked why, and Ruan Mei still hadn’t figured out what surprised her more: Herta’s unconscious affection, or the fact that her own cheeks had gone hot as Herta stumbled over a response.

And now…

Now Ruan Mei stood alone, the truth of Elara's existence heavy in her chest.

Asta had taken the girl to the observation decks and the greenhouse wing — somewhere bright, somewhere far from the things Ruan Mei was still trying to understand. And Herta? She had returned to her lab briefly, likely to gather data or lose herself in equations that made sense.

But this folder — these records — weren’t logical. They weren’t clean. They were a map of something larger than either of them had known, and Elara… Elara was the compass.

Ruan Mei stepped back from the cabinet, her fingers curling tightly around the datapad in her hand.

She shut her eyes.

No matter what Elara was made for — no matter what she was becoming — she was still theirs. And that truth, whether born of science, fate, or something in between, could no longer be ignored.

The mystery of Elara’s nature would have to wait.

But not for long.

The walkway curved outward into open glass — a vast observation corridor shaped like a crescent moon. Starlight flooded in from every direction, painting Asta and Elara in soft hues of gold and violet.

Elara leaned close to the transparent wall, her palms pressed to the cool surface. Below her, the Herta Space Station spun gently in orbit, floating in a nebula of ever-shifting color.

“It’s so big,” she whispered, violet eyes wide with wonder. “And so small at the same time…”

Asta smiled from beside her, hands clasped behind her back. “That’s how it always feels when you’re out here. The stars make everything beautiful — even the lonely parts.”

Elara tilted her head slightly, her gaze drifting to a distant speck of silver. “That’s… the docking bay. Right?”

Asta blinked. “Yes… it is. Good eye.”

Elara’s nose wrinkled. “It smells like metal and engine dust. But there's a hallway near it that always creaks. It’s got a yellow floor with a stripe down the middle.”

There was a pause.

Asta furrowed her brows gently. “Have you been down there already?”

Elara looked confused. “No. I… don’t think so.”

She turned from the window and started walking again, her soft boots quiet on the polished floor. Her little hands swung slightly at her sides, sleeves of her borrowed sweater bunching around her wrists — the one Ruan Mei had lovingly helped her into that morning.

Asta caught up beside her, watching her sidelong.

Elara spoke again, slower this time. “There’s a big door two turns past the creaky hallway. The kind that needs a clearance badge. There’s a humming noise behind it… and I don’t like it.”

“Did someone tell you that?” Asta asked gently.

“No,” Elara said. She blinked, clearly unsure. “I think I dreamed it.”

Asta didn’t correct her — didn’t argue. Just offered a small, understanding smile. “Dreams can be strange like that. Sometimes your brain notices things before you do.”

Elara nodded absently, but her fingers curled slightly at her side.

They passed a cluster of sunlit laboratories, and Asta paused in front of a tall window. Inside, researchers worked around a machine shaped like a coiled helix, its interior glowing faint blue.

“This is the gene-mapping sector,” Asta explained, gesturing inside. “Some of the brightest minds in the galaxy work here — including your Mama.”

Elara’s gaze snapped upward at the word Mama. She smiled, small but real.

“She does smart things with life,” Elara said confidently.

Asta chuckled. “She does. She's one of the best. And so is your Mommy.”

“I know,” Elara murmured. Her voice was soft again — quieter now. “They made me.”

Asta looked down, surprised.

Elara blinked up at her, completely calm.

“I mean,” she corrected herself quickly, “they take care of me. That’s what I meant.”

Asta knelt to her level, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re lucky to have them, you know.”

Elara nodded, but her eyes flickered toward the hallway ahead again — to the space where the corridors curved toward the research wing. Something pulled at her. Like gravity.

They moved again, passing display panels and habitat simulations until they reached the botanical dome — one of the few places on the station where everything was green and growing.

Elara’s breath caught in her throat.

A sea of bioluminescent leaves swayed lightly in artificial air currents. Pale orchids bloomed from crystalline stalks. Trees with long, silver fruit arched toward the transparent ceiling like praying hands.

“Whoa…” she whispered.

“It’s pretty, huh?” Asta said proudly. “This is Ruan Mei’s personal greenhouse. She engineered all of this from scratch.”

Elara stepped forward, drawn to a patch of glowing blue moss. Her fingers hovered just above it.

“I’ve seen this before,” she murmured.

Asta tilted her head. “This one was developed last year. It hasn’t left the station yet.”

“No…” Elara whispered. “Not here. In a white place. I was cold, and it was growing through the cracks. I… I think I touched it. Before I was real.”

Before I was real.

The words made the air shift.

Asta stared at her gently. “What do you mean?”

Elara blinked again, startled out of the moment. “I… I don’t know.”

They sat for a while on one of the benches beneath the fruit trees. Asta had brought juice — bright and tart — and Elara sipped it with both hands, her little legs swinging off the edge of the bench.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable.

“You know,” Asta said eventually, “when I first met you, I thought you were just another transfer case. A lost child or stowaway.”

“I was lost,” Elara said, voice flat but not upset.

“But now?” Asta smiled. “I think you’re going to change a lot of lives.”

Elara looked down at her cup.

“Does that mean I’m not a normal girl?”

Asta’s answer came after a pause.

“You’re Elara. That’s more than enough.”

Not long after, a soft chime came from Asta’s datapad. A message from Ruan Mei, requesting Elara’s return.

“I think your Mamas miss you,” Asta said with a grin, rising to her feet.

Elara slid off the bench, her fingers brushing her skirt smooth. “I missed them too.”

As they turned back toward the station’s central wing, Elara glanced over her shoulder one last time — toward the glowing moss, toward the blue-laced trees.

Something tugged at her memory again.

Something waiting.

The lights in Ruan Mei’s private lab glowed with their usual sterile warmth — soft golds and whites meant to imitate the sun, but never quite succeeding. The low hum of ambient systems filled the space, subtle and rhythmic.

Elara lay belly-down on the floor in the corner, a set of colored pencils scattered around her like a constellation of waxy stars. A large sheet of recycled starch-paper sat beneath her, covered in unfinished swirls and stars, wobbly stick figures and crayon-colored galaxies.

Her brow was furrowed in focus, tongue peeking slightly between her lips as she carefully shaded in the hem of a figure’s coat — purple, layered, just like Herta’s.

Across the room, Ruan Mei stood in silence.

The folder was open now.

Its contents spread across the counter like puzzle pieces no one should’ve been allowed to assemble.

She hadn’t meant to read all of it. Not yet. But the moment Elara was safely within arm’s reach again — content and distracted, humming to herself while sketching some chaotic masterpiece — Ruan Mei had given in.

She scanned the next page, heart beating faster with each line.

Experiment N.O.V.A.
“New Organic Viable Ascendant” — Class B Archive, Black-level Security
Design Protocols: Dual-genetic fusion sourced from Subjects H.T.R.-01 (Herta) and R.M.-81 (Ruan Mei).
Gestation Type: Bio-synthetic, temporal loop stabilized.
Viability Status: Confirmed (One in Six).

Ruan Mei’s hand flew to her mouth.

One in six.

What happened to the others…?

Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the next page. Her chest ached with a pressure she couldn’t explain — like being underwater too long.

Addendum 3.4 – Psychological Profile & Temporal Resonance (Classified)

Subject E-06 (“Elara”) displays anomalous cognitive echoes consistent with nonlinear temporal exposure. Patterns of behavior suggest memory retention from events not yet present in the current timeline. Emotional reactions align with stimuli she should have no context for. Attempts to isolate the temporal origin of Subject E-06’s consciousness have failed; all quantum signatures remain entangled and unresolved. Possibility of future-born displacement remains high.

Directive: Active interrogation is strictly prohibited. Subject stability is emotionally linked. Recommend passive observation, emotional anchoring, and environment-based cognitive reinforcement. Maintain developmental normalcy at all costs.

Parental Bond Analysis (Flagged: Emotional Attachment Detected)
During final gestation and stabilization phases, spontaneous neuro-empathic pairing occurred between H.T.R.-01 and R.M.-81. Subject response to both is consistent with early-stage parental imprinting. Neural scans confirm high-affinity bonding markers. Exposure continuation is not only advised but may be critical to subject well-being and memory integration.

Note: Imprint acceptance was mutual. Emotional reciprocity confirmed.

Ruan Mei’s knees nearly buckled.

She backed away from the counter, one hand bracing against the edge as she stared down at the file — at the words parental assignment and pair-bond and subject responds… with emotional attachment.

Across the room, Elara let out a quiet giggle. “Oops!”

She had drawn a galaxy a bit too close to the sun in her picture, and now one of her stick-figures looked like it was melting. She frowned, stuck out her tongue, then added sunglasses to it.

Ruan Mei watched her in stunned silence.

This small girl, lying on the floor in a borrowed sweater. Drawing their little universe. Humming off-key. Kicking her feet in the air. A little too clever. A little too fragile. A little too much like…

Mine.

She covered her mouth again, breath catching. The weight of it — not the science, not the project, but the truth of what had happened — pressed down on her like gravity.

Elara had never been hypothetical.

She wasn’t just a curiosity born from fringe genetics and a shimmering anomaly. She wasn’t some cosmic test tube miracle.

She was their confirmed daughter.

Theirs.

Ruan Mei sat down slowly on the bench, the datapad still clutched in her hand. She didn’t even realize she’d sat right in the middle of one of Elara’s abandoned coloring sheets — a star she’d drawn too large, colored all the way in with a thick, hopeful yellow.

She stared at nothing, mind racing.

The moment Herta had kissed Elara on the head without thinking. The way the child reached for her coat when she was scared. The way her drawings always showed three people, always holding hands, even if the figures were clumsy and uneven.

None of this had been a mistake.

It had only taken her until now to see it clearly.

“Hey Mama,” Elara called softly, lifting a crayon in one hand. “What color should your hair be?”

Ruan Mei blinked, looked over.

Elara was sketching her next to Herta and herself — a little triangular family, standing under a giant constellation.

“Brown,” Ruan Mei managed to whisper. “With blue streaks. But… maybe this time… draw the blue like stars.”

Elara lit up, nodding enthusiastically. “Okay! Star-streaks!”

She returned to her work with renewed energy, completely unaware of how Ruan Mei was quietly breaking apart in the corner.

The file still sat open behind her. The word Ascendant stared back from the page, heavy with future meanings they hadn’t yet grasped.

But Ruan Mei wasn’t thinking about ascension, or timelines, or data.

She was thinking about Elara’s giggles.

Her tiny voice calling her Mama.

The warm weight of a sleepy child pressing into her side at breakfast.

Elara hadn’t come from nowhere.

She had come from them.

And no folder — no file, no warning, no scientific protocol — could prepare her for how deeply that realization would settle in her chest.

Right now, Elara was safe.

And Ruan Mei would make sure she stayed that way.

Lunch had ended in a quiet sprawl of warmth and sleepiness.

Elara’s plate had been nearly licked clean — soup gone, fruit slices reduced to sticky smiles on the rim. Somewhere in between Herta finishing her tea and Ruan Mei wiping stray orange bits from Elara’s cheek, the child had climbed up onto Herta’s lap and promptly dozed off.

Now, she lay against Herta’s shoulder, her arms slack, breath soft against her collarbone. Her fingers had curled instinctively into the fabric of Herta’s coat again — not clinging now, just… holding.

Herta glanced down at her, quiet.

She looked peaceful for once. Like the nightmares from the night before had receded. Like the stars in her drawings had protected her after all.

“She’s out,” Herta said quietly, careful not to disturb her.

Ruan Mei only nodded, her gaze fond.

Together, they walked back through the quiet halls — past the cafeteria, down the transport corridor, into the residential wing. No one spoke. Elara’s small weight in Herta’s arms felt oddly grounding, like holding something too important for words.

In her room, Herta laid her gently on the bed.

She shifted only once — a quiet sound, a turn of her head into the pillow — before settling. Herta brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek and hesitated.

Then, she leaned down and kissed her temple again.

Just in case.

When she turned, Ruan Mei was waiting in the doorway.

“She’ll sleep for a while,” Herta murmured.

Ruan Mei nodded once. “Come with me.”

Herta followed without question.

The lab Ruan Mei chose was one they rarely used — a clean, compact chamber adjacent to the genetics wing, sealed behind a biometric door and shielded from standard surveillance. Inside, the sterile lights flickered to life as they entered, casting the lab in pale silver-blue.

Herta took one look at the console and stopped walking.

The folder was there.

Open. Half-spread. Not scattered, not chaotic — but read. Considered. Understood.

Ruan Mei stepped closer and said, softly, “I didn’t know what it was at first. I found it today, after Breakfast. I wasn’t sure I should open it, but…” She looked away for a breath. “I couldn’t eat.”

Herta’s gaze stayed locked on the file.

“You read all of it?” she asked.

“Almost.” A pause. “There’s more.”

Ruan Mei reached for the remaining pages — the ones she had left untouched, too emotionally overwhelmed to process alone.

“I thought… we should read the rest together.”

Herta approached in silence, her boots soft against the tile. She didn’t sit, only leaned slightly over the console, scanning the headers on the final documents.

Experimental Overview – Project N.O.V.A.
New Organic Viable Ascendant
Phase IV: Genetic Integration, Temporal Contingency, Emotional Stability Framework

Summary: Subject E-06 is the first recorded successful synthesis of dual-genetic material from Genius Society members under Phase IV conditions. Project N.O.V.A. was designed to explore whether Emanator-level evolution could be initiated through biological catalysts rather than cosmic ascension. Results exceeded all initial projections.

Herta’s eyes narrowed.

Subject E-06 achieved stable cognitive fusion after gestational emergence via temporal self-loop. The subject did not arrive via standard incubation. She appeared within the stabilization chamber, bearing forward signatures. No memory of the travel process is retained. No artificial placement was initiated.

Hypothesis: Subject E-06 returned from a future iteration of this timeline. Motivation unknown. Possible instinctive survival behavior or latent Eon directive. Recommend passive observation until emergence event is repeated or triggered. Genetic tagging confirms dual parentage: Herta (H.T.R.-01) and Ruan Mei (R.M.-81).

Herta’s breath caught.

She read it again.

Out loud, this time.

“‘Genetic tagging confirms dual parentage…’” Her voice thinned. “This says… Elara is…”

Ruan Mei’s voice was low. “Ours. Confirmed.”

Silence fell between them.

The soft hum of the lab’s systems ticked on like background noise to a storm neither had quite felt the edge of yet.

Herta slowly turned her gaze to Ruan Mei.

Her lips parted. “But I never— I never authorized—”

“You didn’t need to,” Ruan Mei whispered. “The bonding happened during stabilization. That’s what it said. She didn’t grow in a tank. She… appeared. Somehow. From the future. From us. Made in the future”

Another page waited beneath the others.

Ruan Mei slid it forward with trembling fingers.

Subject has not been informed of origin. Neural patterning indicates high emotional dependency on both genetic sources. Protective behaviors from H.T.R.-01 have intensified. Psychological markers in R.M.-81 suggest delayed emotional acknowledgment — risk of destabilization present only if bond is denied.

Recommendation: Allow pair-bond reinforcement through natural emotional development. Suppression of awareness may result in trauma response. Parental imprint already embedded.

Neither of them spoke.

Herta reached out, fingers brushing over the text as if it might vanish. Then slowly, she sat down beside Ruan Mei — silent, stunned.

“I held her last night,” Herta said, voice soft and uneven. “After the nightmare. She clung to me like… like she knew I wouldn’t leave. And I didn’t want to. I couldn’t.”

“She called you ‘Mommy’,” Ruan Mei whispered. “She called me ‘Mama’ since the beginning. I thought it was just… affection. A child needing comfort. But it wasn’t just that.”

“It never was.”

For a long moment, they sat in silence. Two scientists. Two minds sharper than most in the universe. Staring at data that felt less like a discovery and more like a revelation they had no tools to process.

Ruan Mei turned her head, voice barely above a whisper. “We didn’t plan for this.”

Herta’s answer was just as quiet. “No.”

“But she’s still… ours.”

“…Yes.”

Their hands brushed faintly on the bench between them.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

The documents sat between them like a crack in spacetime — sterile, clinical, absolute. Printed proof that whatever Elara was, she had not been created by accident.

And somehow, impossibly, she had come from them.

Ruan Mei leaned forward first, her elbows gently resting on the edge of the desk as her fingers knit together. She stared down at the last page, eyes scanning the lines again as if hoping the words would change.

“She’s ours,” she repeated, quieter now. “But… we didn’t raise her. Not in the future she came from. If she came backhere, it means—”

“Something happened,” Herta finished.

Her voice was flat, but not cold. It was the tone she used when solving a puzzle that hurt to look at too closely.

Ruan Mei’s brow furrowed, her voice tight. “She saw us die in her dream, Herta. What if it wasn’t just a nightmare?”

Herta didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she looked down at her hands. Her gloves were gone — she hadn’t bothered to put them on after lunch. Her fingers flexed slightly, palms open as if remembering the exact shape of Elara’s sleeping weight cradled there.

“I’ve never been afraid of dying,” she said at last. “But I’m afraid of what it would do to her. If she already lived through it once…”

“She’s just a child,” Ruan Mei whispered, pain tightening her voice. “She shouldn’t have to carry any of this.”

“She shouldn’t exist,” Herta corrected, but softly — not with cruelty, but with a kind of shocked reverence. “And yet she does.”

Ruan Mei blinked, startled by the emotion trembling behind those words.

She looked over at Herta — really looked — and saw, not the clinical genius or the puppetmaster of entire research sectors, but a woman who had held a little girl all night with arms that refused to let go. A woman who had gone stiff with silent panic when Elara cried, and who now sat, shaken, trying not to fall apart.

“It’s always been you,” Ruan Mei said suddenly, quietly. “She runs to you when she’s scared. When she’s in pain. I used to wonder why.”

Herta glanced up, startled.

“You… you’re the one she clings to,” Ruan Mei continued, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “I’m the warmth. But you — you’re her shield.”

“I never meant to be,” Herta murmured.

“You didn’t have to mean it,” Ruan Mei said. “You just… are.”

A silence fell again.

It wasn’t the empty kind. It was full — thick with memories that hadn’t happened yet, love they hadn’t known they’d given, and a child upstairs who had already chosen them, long before either of them dared to choose each other.

“I think,” Ruan Mei said softly, “somewhere, in the future she came from… we were already a family. Maybe not in name. Maybe not officially. But something about her… about the way she looks at us… it feels like she remembers. Even if we don’t.”

Herta exhaled, long and slow.

“She has your lashes,” she murmured. “But my eye color.”

“And your stubbornness,” Ruan Mei added, fondly. “But my need to nest.”

That surprised a soft, almost unwilling smile out of Herta. “She gets into my lab drawers, you know. Rearranges them. Leaves cookies in my data bins.”

“She organizes my embroidery threads by wavelength. Incorrectly, but consistently.”

They laughed quietly — the kind of laugh that was more about grief than joy, but still necessary. Still real.

Then Ruan Mei’s voice dropped, soft and raw. “Do you regret it?”

Herta looked at her.

“No,” she said. “Not for a moment.”

Ruan Mei looked down. “Neither do I.”

Their hands brushed again on the table — not accidental this time.

Neither pulled away.

Herta’s voice was very quiet. “So what do we do now?”

Ruan Mei didn’t answer with words.

She reached forward, slid the final report back into the folder, and sealed it shut.

Then she looked Herta in the eyes and said, “Now… we raise her.”

Herta blinked.

It sounded so simple. So impossible. So final.

“She already thinks of us that way,” Ruan Mei added. “Even if we pretend not to see it.”

Herta’s fingers curled on the bench, then relaxed.

The stars might shift. The timelines might fracture. The truth might shatter again and again under their hands.

But Elara was theirs.

And somehow, that mattered more than any experiment they’d ever built.

Herta gave a single, slow nod.

“Then we raise her,” she said. “Together.”

And for the first time since reading the file, it felt like the floor beneath them had stopped moving.

The lights in Elara’s room had dimmed to their usual afternoon glow by the time she stirred.

She didn’t wake all at once — more like a slow drift. First, her legs shifted under the blanket. Then her arm flopped out from under the covers with a quiet sigh.

She sat up groggily, blinking at the soft starlight above her. The ceiling projector must’ve still been running, casting gentle constellations across the room. Her limbs were heavy, her head warm. But the ache in her chest — the one from her nightmare — was duller now. Almost gone.

She rubbed her eyes and climbed out of bed, the blanket dragging behind her. The room was quiet. Peaceful.

Still in her socks, she stepped into the hallway.

The smell of something sweet floated in the air — cinnamon and chocolate, maybe. It tugged her forward like an invisible thread.

She followed the scent and the soft hum of voices, leading her to the small lounge space near the lab entrance. She paused in the doorway.

Ruan Mei sat on the edge of the couch, her legs curled up beside her, a datapad resting on her lap. Herta was next to her, half-turned, a half-empty mug of tea in her hands. They were speaking quietly — not about anything serious, just something about a calibration report that didn’t match.

But they looked... different.

Not in a bad way. Just... softer.

Closer.

Elara stood there for a moment without saying anything. Just watching.

It was Ruan Mei who noticed her first. “Ah—Elara!” she said, setting her datapad aside. “You’re awake.”

Herta looked up, her expression shifting from focused to warm. “How are you feeling?”

Elara shrugged, still blinking sleep from her eyes. “Okay, I guess.”

She took a few small steps into the room.

Ruan Mei stood, smoothing her skirt. “Did you sleep well?”

Elara nodded. Then frowned slightly. “You’re... sitting together.”

Herta raised a brow. “We do that sometimes.”

“No, I mean—” Elara’s hands flailed slightly, like she was trying to catch the right words. “It’s different. You’re smiling more. And you’re not arguing.”

Ruan Mei chuckled. “We don’t argue that much.”

“You do,” Elara said with a straight face. “All the time. About science stuff.”

That made Herta snort faintly into her mug. She set it down and stood.

“We just had a good talk,” she said simply.

Elara tilted her head. “About what?”

Ruan Mei exchanged a quick glance with Herta. Then she knelt down and opened her arms slightly.

“You.”

Elara froze.

“About how... we care about you,” Ruan Mei continued carefully. “How important you’ve become to us.”

Elara looked between the two of them. Her voice dropped. “Like family?”

Herta stepped closer. “Exactly like that.”

A long pause.

Then Elara’s face crumpled into something halfway between disbelief and pure relief. She moved quickly — too fast for her socks on the slick floor — and nearly stumbled into Ruan Mei’s arms.

Ruan Mei caught her without hesitation.

Herta was right behind her, wrapping an arm gently around both of them.

“You’re not just someone we look after,” Ruan Mei murmured into her hair. “You’re ours.”

Elara clung to them both tightly, her voice muffled. “You mean it?”

“Yes,” Herta said, her voice quieter than usual. “We mean it.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Elara whispered, “I already knew.”

Ruan Mei smiled — a small, wobbly thing full of feeling. “We’re a little slow, huh?”

Elara just hugged them tighter.

And for a little while, none of them said anything more.

The hush that followed wasn’t awkward or uncertain — it was warm. Steady. A silence filled with something that didn’t need explaining. The soft hum of the station carried on around them, but inside that small lounge, time seemed to slow.

Three hearts, once scattered by science and circumstance, now beat in quiet sync — held together not by data, but by something far older. Far deeper.

Love, unspoken… but finally understood.

Chapter Text

The station was quieter than usual.

Morning had crept in gently, casting soft light across the halls of the research wing. Most of the other personnel were still in rest cycles or quietly handling their tasks elsewhere, which left the main lab hallway unusually calm.

Elara padded barefoot across the smooth floor, a bundle of crayon drawings clutched to her chest.

Her steps were quiet, tentative, as though she didn’t want to disturb the silence — or maybe, didn’t want anyone to catch her in the act. Her hair was still a little messy from sleep, and her socks didn’t match — one had stars on it, the other little moons — but she didn’t seem to care.

She stopped in front of the console just outside the Simulated Universe access terminal.

This one was Herta’s.

With slow, careful fingers, she peeled a strip of purple tape from the little roll she’d borrowed from Ruan Mei’s desk and pressed the paper to the console.

It wasn’t words this time — not really.

It was a drawing.

A stick figure with Herta’s hat — way too big on the round head — holding what looked like a magic key in one hand and a heart in the other. Floating above her was a little speech bubble with the words: “I don’t go anywhere. I stay.”

Beneath it, in shaky, crayon-written letters:
“To Mommy. Thank you for not leaving me.”

Elara stepped back, fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, and gave the drawing a little nod — as though it had passed some invisible test.

Then she moved on.

Next was the storage closet near the bio-dome control panel. That one belonged more to Ruan Mei than anyone else. It was where she always tucked her gloves and notes and backup datapads — where she disappeared to when she needed five minutes to breathe.

Elara taped the second paper to the door.

This one had three figures: a tall one with a flower on her hip, a smaller one with wild hair and stars all around, and the same Herta-hatted stick figure again. They were holding hands, standing under a sky of messy scribbled stars.

“To Mama. I love your singing even when you think I can’t hear it.”

It took Elara a long time to walk away from that one.

She made her way toward the cafeteria next, then past the infirmary, then to the little back hallway where Herta once let her nap in the corner during a long experiment cycle. Each stop had a drawing. Each message was different.

She didn’t speak to anyone on her way. She just moved through the station like a whisper, her face calm, her hands steady, her thoughts unreadable.

By the time she returned to the lounge, there was only one note left.

She hadn’t drawn it yet.

Ruan Mei was there, organizing a small set of microscope slides, humming softly to herself. She looked up when Elara came in. “There you are,” she said with a smile. “You’ve been busy this morning.”

Elara nodded but didn’t say anything.

She wandered to the corner of the room, pulled a piece of folded paper from under her shirt, and dropped to the floor with her crayons. Ruan Mei watched her for a moment — the concentration on her face, the small furrow in her brow as she pressed color to the page — and didn’t interrupt.

About five minutes passed before Elara stood up again.

She walked over to Ruan Mei with slow, almost hesitant steps. She looked down at the drawing in her hands — like maybe she was considering hiding it again — but then held it out.

“This one’s… for both,” she said.

Ruan Mei took it gently.

The picture was simpler than the others. It was just a bed — a child tucked beneath a starry blanket — and two adult stick figures on either side. One had Herta’s coat. The other had Ruan Mei’s signature flower and curls.

And in the middle, over the blanket, was a big pink heart.

The words written at the bottom read:

“Thank you for making me real.”

Ruan Mei didn’t speak for a long time.

When she finally looked up, her eyes were damp — not crying, but close. She crouched down in front of Elara and wrapped her arms around her.

“You’ve always been real,” she whispered, her voice catching just a little.

Elara held her tight. “I didn’t know. Not before. But now… I feel it.”

The sound of footsteps interrupted them.

Herta stepped into the room with her usual controlled pace, datapad in one hand. Her eyes flicked between them — the embrace, the drawing in Ruan Mei’s hand, the small pile of crayons on the floor.

She said nothing.

But then, without even thinking, she crossed the room, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to the top of Elara’s head.

And then — without breaking stride — she did the same to Ruan Mei.

The room went silent.

Ruan Mei blinked, visibly stunned. Her face flushed bright pink.

Herta froze mid-step, realizing what she’d done.

“I—” she began.

Elara looked up, wide-eyed. “Why did you kiss Mama on the head?”

Herta’s mouth opened. Then closed. “I wasn’t… thinking.”

“You kissed me too,” Elara pointed out. “Is that a thing now?”

Ruan Mei turned away slightly, pretending to wipe her glasses. “Maybe it is.”

Herta cleared her throat. “It’s a… form of non-verbal affection.”

“Oh,” Elara said. Then smiled — one of those innocent, shining smiles that came with no doubt or worry. “I like it.”

“Me too,” Ruan Mei murmured, still not looking directly at either of them.

Herta tried to say something else but decided against it. Instead, she simply sat down beside Elara, who immediately crawled into her lap, holding the last drawing close to her chest.

The morning light spilled through the window, and for a moment, none of them spoke.

The notes were still scattered across the station — taped to doors and panels, consoles and corners. Small, imperfect gifts in crayon and tape.

But here, in this room, in this moment — they didn’t need words.

They already knew.

The soft glow of the stars on Elara’s ceiling projector flickered gently in the quiet room.

Night had fallen fully, wrapping the station in a cool, peaceful silence. The usual hum of machinery seemed distant, almost hushed, as if the whole place was holding its breath.

Elara lay in her bed, her small hands clutching the crumpled drawing from earlier — the one with the bed, the stars, and the big pink heart.

She stared up at the glowing constellations, tracing imaginary patterns with her fingertips.

But sleep didn’t come.

Instead, thoughts filled her mind like a tide, rising higher with every beat of her heart.

After what felt like an eternity, the door slid open softly.

Herta stepped inside first, her usual composed expression softened by concern. Behind her came Ruan Mei, who carried a small tray with a glass of water and a warm cloth.

They both moved carefully, like they didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace of the moment.

Elara turned her head slowly to look at them.

“Can you stay?” she asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Herta exchanged a glance with Ruan Mei and nodded.

Ruan Mei set the tray on the bedside table and settled into a chair near the foot of the bed. Herta sat on the edge beside Elara, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

For a long while, no one spoke.

Then Elara’s voice broke the silence.

“Am I… made?”

The question hung in the air like a fragile thread.

Ruan Mei blinked, swallowing softly.

Herta’s fingers tightened just a little around Elara’s hand.

“What do you mean, made?” Herta asked gently.

Elara’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I mean… was I put together? Like a puzzle? Like something built?”

Ruan Mei leaned forward, her voice calm but careful.

“You’re very special, Elara. Made in a way that no one else is.”

Elara’s eyes searched theirs for answers, but they seemed hesitant, unsure.

Herta spoke again.

“You are real.”

“But not like other kids?” Elara asked, her voice trembling just slightly.

“No,” Ruan Mei said softly. “You’re one of a kind.”

Elara swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting of tears.

“Does that mean I’m not… real real?”

Herta shook her head, brushing a tear away from Elara’s cheek.

“You are. In every way that matters.”

“But I don’t remember being born,” Elara said, voice cracking.

“That’s okay,” Ruan Mei said. “Not everyone remembers.”

Elara’s lip trembled.

“I’m scared.”

Herta pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around her small shoulders.

“We know.”

Ruan Mei nodded, reaching out to hold Elara’s other hand.

“We’ll be here,” she promised. “No matter what.”

Elara squeezed their hands tightly.

“Am I like you? Like other people?”

Herta smiled softly.

“You’re like both of us. And like no one else.”

Elara’s eyes searched theirs again, looking for something — maybe a truth too big for words.

“Will I always be here?”

“Yes,” Ruan Mei said firmly. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Elara’s breath hitched.

“Will you always be here?”

Herta and Ruan Mei exchanged a glance.

“We will,” Herta said simply.

Elara’s eyes closed, a small sigh escaping her lips.

For a while, the three of them sat together — connected by something unspoken but stronger than any explanation.

In the darkness, surrounded by stars and quiet, Elara finally let her guard down.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt a fragile kind of peace.

The evening air in the room was cooler now, the gentle hum of the station’s life-support systems a steady backdrop to the quiet. Elara sat curled on Herta’s lap, her small body burning with an unsteady heat. Herta’s brow was furrowed, worry tightening her delicate features as she gently brushed damp strands of ash-brown hair from the girl’s flushed face.

“Your forehead’s so warm,” Herta murmured, voice low and steady. “You’re running a fever.”

Elara blinked slowly, her violet eyes glassy and unfocused. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, as if she were struggling to breathe deeply.

Ruan Mei stood nearby, concern etched across her usually composed face. “I’ll check the medical bay,” she said softly. “Maybe there’s something we can do.”

“No,” Herta replied before Elara could protest. “She needs rest first.”

Elara nestled closer into Herta’s arms, but her restlessness was growing. Her tiny hands twitched, fingers curling and uncurling as if reaching for something unseen.

And then her eyes fluttered closed — but the stillness was fragile.

In the fevered haze, the edges of her mind began to blur and twist. Shapes and colors bled together, forming flashes of distant memories she didn’t understand but felt deeply.

A bright room filled with harsh white light.

A desk cluttered with strange instruments and glowing displays.

A woman in a crisp lab coat, her face calm but unreadable, speaking softly.

“Tell me what this pattern means,” the woman said, pointing to a sequence of symbols that shimmered and shifted on a screen.

Elara’s young mind absorbed it instantly. The complex mathematical puzzle unraveled like a ribbon in her thoughts. She spoke the answer without hesitation — precise, flawless, far beyond what a child her age should comprehend.

“Excellent,” the woman said. “You’re learning faster than anticipated.”

But then, a cold shadow crept in around the edges of the memory.

Voices whispered words she couldn’t quite grasp.

A sense of urgency, a warning.

Fear — sharp and immediate — flooded her chest.

Her eyes snapped open, wild and wide.

She gasped, clutching at her chest as if the invisible weight inside might crush her.

“It hurts,” she whispered, voice trembling. “It burns inside.”

Herta tightened her arms protectively, heart aching. “I’m here, Elara. You’re safe.”

But the flicker of fear in Elara’s eyes was growing, as if the fever had pulled back a curtain she wasn’t ready to face.

The air seemed to thicken around them, shadows twisting closer.

And then the nightmare began — fierce, violent, and all-consuming.

The soft hum of the Clock Tower’s ventilation filled the room, a steady background rhythm that should have been calming, but to Herta and Ruan Mei, the silence between them felt taut — like a string pulled tight, ready to snap.

Elara lay pale and fragile beneath the heavy blanket Herta had tucked around her. Her breath came in slow, shallow waves, but the fever hadn’t fully broken, leaving a faint flush coloring her cheeks.

Herta sat at the edge of the bed, one hand brushing through Elara’s ash-brown hair — the strands so fine they felt like silk slipping through her fingers. Her other hand rested gently on the girl’s forehead, cool and steady, measuring the warmth beneath.

Ruan Mei was kneeling on the floor nearby, a small glass of water and a damp cloth carefully folded in her hands. The corner of her mouth twitched in a small smile as she caught Herta’s gaze.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” she said softly, voice just above a whisper, her turquoise eyes shimmering with a mixture of worry and something else — something warmer.

Herta looked back, lips curving faintly, a blush creeping up the sides of her face. “I just... want to make sure she’s safe.”

There was a pause — brief, charged — as their eyes met, and in that quiet exchange, a thousand words remained unspoken. A tenderness, almost shy, blooming beneath the surface.

Ruan Mei moved forward, gently pressing the damp cloth against Elara’s heated forehead. The girl stirred slightly, eyelids fluttering, but didn’t wake.

“She needs rest,” Ruan Mei murmured, voice low and steady. “But hydration too. I’ll get her some tea — something light.”

Herta nodded, voice soft, “We’ll take turns watching her.”

Ruan Mei hesitated for a heartbeat, then her gaze dropped to the floor. “I’ll stay with you. Tonight.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Herta’s face, quickly replaced by something like warmth. “I’d like that.”

The air between them softened, the tightness easing just enough to let a small smile pass between two people suddenly aware of each other in a new way.

Meanwhile, Elara shifted, her small hand slipping out from beneath the blanket and curling loosely around Herta’s fingers. The warmth of her touch was a balm, a fragile anchor in the uneasy night.

Herta’s heart clenched. She lowered her hand carefully, allowing Elara to hold it fully. It was a simple gesture, but the weight of it settled deep in her chest — the silent promise to protect, to be present.

Ruan Mei pulled a chair close and sat beside the bed, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.

For several minutes, they sat like that, watching over Elara, the quiet punctuated only by her gentle breaths and the faint ticking of distant clocks.

Then, breaking the stillness, Elara’s soft voice — hesitant, vulnerable — drifted out.

“Mommy… Mama… did I scare you?”

Herta blinked, startled by the fragility in the question. She glanced at Ruan Mei, whose lips pressed together in a tender smile.

“Never,” Herta said, voice gentle, though her own throat tightened. “You’re the bravest girl I know.”

Ruan Mei reached over to lightly brush a stray lock of hair from Elara’s damp forehead, the touch delicate as a feather. “We’re here for you. No matter what.”

Elara’s eyelids fluttered closed again, but she reached out — her small hand grasping Ruan Mei’s fingers tightly, before sliding over to hold Herta’s as well.

The two women exchanged another glance — warmth blooming like dawn’s first light.

Ruan Mei’s eyes softened. “She’s ours. That much is clear.”

Herta’s breath hitched slightly, cheeks flushing deeper. “Yes. And we’ll protect her. Always.”

As Elara drifted back to sleep, Herta carefully lifted her in gentle arms, carrying her to the bed she had prepared earlier — soft blankets, warm pillows, everything just right.

Ruan Mei rose to her feet, standing close beside Herta, the subtle scent of jasmine and herbs mingling in the air.

“Do you think she knows?” Ruan Mei asked quietly, almost to herself.

Herta’s eyes met hers, and the weight of the question lingered between them.

“Maybe,” she whispered. “But it’s the kind of knowing that doesn’t need words.”

Ruan Mei smiled, the vulnerability of that moment making her pulse quicken.

They moved together toward the door, the unspoken feelings hanging like a delicate thread stretched between them — a fragile promise of something new.

Outside, the hall was quiet, but inside that small room, a family was growing — not just in blood or science, but in heart.

Chapter Text

The first sound was a soft gag — small, strained, but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

Ruan Mei stirred instantly from her seat at Elara’s bedside, her fingers tightening around the teacup she'd been holding. The cup clinked against its saucer as she quickly stood. Herta was already there, moving with startling swiftness from the corner of the room. They reached Elara’s side at the same time.

Elara’s body jerked beneath the blankets. Her tiny frame convulsed once, twice, before she curled in on herself, gasping — and then the retching began.

It was quiet at first, but violent.

Herta immediately pulled the blankets back, helping her sit upright. Ruan Mei grabbed the small waste bin they’d kept nearby just in case, holding it close to Elara’s mouth. The girl leaned forward, coughing and gagging, her thin shoulders trembling under her oversized sleep shirt.

“You’re okay,” Herta murmured, her voice steady but tight. “We’ve got you.”

Elara couldn’t speak. Her body was too focused on expelling whatever it could — though there wasn’t much left. When it ended, she slumped forward, breath shallow, chin trembling, tears streaking down her cheeks without her realizing.

Ruan Mei wiped her mouth gently with a cloth, whispering reassurances in soft tones. Herta supported her from behind, her arms wrapped protectively around the girl’s middle, anchoring her in the storm.

“I’m sorry,” Elara rasped between hiccupped breaths, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to...”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Ruan Mei said quickly, kneeling in front of her. “It’s just the fever. Your body’s trying to fight it.”

“It hurts,” Elara whimpered. “Inside.”

“I know,” Herta whispered. “We’re here.”

They eased her back into bed, changing the sweat-drenched pillow and tucking a fresh blanket around her. Elara’s skin was still hot to the touch, and her breathing remained uneven, but for now, the worst had passed.

The fever was still high. As the minutes crawled by, Elara drifted in and out of consciousness, caught between half-formed dreams and flickers of memory too intense to be ignored.

Her fingers twitched restlessly against the sheets, her lips murmuring fragmented words.

“No... not again... the white room...”

Herta and Ruan Mei exchanged a glance but said nothing. They stayed at her side, one on each end of the bed, watching, waiting.

Then — suddenly — Elara bolted upright with a gasp, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown with terror. She looked around but didn’t seem to see the room. Her hands clawed at the air, as if trying to push something away.

“She’s reliving something,” Ruan Mei whispered, reaching to touch her arm.

“Don’t touch it!” Elara shrieked, pulling away violently, voice shaking. “Don’t — don’t look in there!”

Ruan Mei flinched but didn’t back away. “Elara, it’s us,” she said softly. “It’s Mama and Mommy. You’re not alone.”

Elara’s head turned sharply, blinking at them through the fog. Her lips parted like she might say something else — but instead she crumpled, her body folding forward as fresh tears spilled from her eyes.

“They put wires in my head,” she sobbed, clutching at her scalp. “I remember. I remember it now. It was cold and bright and they kept saying I was ‘progressing.’ Like I wasn’t a person. Just... data.”

Herta’s breath hitched.

Very gently, she reached out and took Elara’s trembling hand.

“No more wires,” she said, with rare conviction. “Not ever again.”

Elara didn’t answer. She just pressed her forehead against Herta’s side and wept — quietly, brokenly, like someone much older than her years.

Elara lay quiet again, the worst of the vomiting behind her, but the shaking hadn’t stopped. Her small hands clutched the edge of her blanket like it was the only thing anchoring her. She stared at the ceiling as if something terrifying might drop from it at any moment.

Ruan Mei returned with a warm compress and tea she’d steeped herself — chamomile and ginger, light and calming. She passed it to Herta without a word.

“I don’t want to sleep again,” Elara whispered. Her voice was raw. “Every time I close my eyes, I go back. I see things I shouldn’t. I feel things.”

“You’re awake now,” Herta said gently. “You’re here, with us.”

“But what if it happens again?” Elara asked, glancing at them both, her violet eyes wide and glassy. “What if I forget who I am?”

“You won’t,” Ruan Mei said softly as she knelt by the bed. “We’ll remind you. As many times as it takes.”

Elara swallowed. “But what am I, really?”

She looked down at her hands, flexing them slowly like they might give her the answer. “I remembered... people in suits. Gloves. Lights. A voice that told me I was important, but only if I performed right.”

She closed her hands into fists.

“Like I was just something they built. Not someone who gets to cry. Or be scared. Or be held.”

Herta’s voice was quieter than usual, but not less certain. “Then they were wrong.”

Elara blinked.

“They didn’t make you. They made... systems. Tests. Blueprints. But you came from something they couldn’t design. You became yourself.”

Elara looked at her, searching, skeptical. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve studied enough artificial intelligence and replication theory to know when something is manufactured,” Herta said. “You’re not manufactured. You’re miraculous.”

Ruan Mei reached up to brush hair from Elara’s flushed face. “You feel. You hope. You care. That doesn’t come from blueprints.”

“I didn’t ask to remember all this,” Elara murmured.

“We know,” Herta said. “And we’ll be right here until it doesn’t hurt as much.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the low hum of the station. Then Elara whispered, “You won’t go away?”

Ruan Mei leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Never.”

The lights had dimmed to a soft amber hue, mimicking dusk. Elara’s fever had started to fade at last, and with it, the tension in her limbs. She lay curled between Herta and Ruan Mei now — not speaking, just listening to their breaths beside her.

Her head rested against Herta’s chest, where she could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat — one-two, one-two — quiet and grounding. One of Herta’s arms was draped around her protectively. Ruan Mei had curled up on Elara’s other side, her fingers absentmindedly brushing the back of the girl’s hand.

For a while, they just lay there, suspended in a kind of fragile peace.

Then, very softly, Elara whispered, “I used to think I wasn’t allowed to want things.”

Ruan Mei stirred gently. “What do you mean?”

“If I wanted too much… they’d take things away,” Elara said. “Like quiet. Or light. Or time. So I stopped asking.”

Herta closed her eyes. Her arm tightened gently around her.

“You don’t have to earn love here,” she said. “Or safety. You already have it.”

“I’m still scared,” Elara whispered.

“We are too, sometimes,” Ruan Mei said honestly. “But that’s why we’re together.”

Elara was quiet for a moment.

Then: “Can I still call you Mommy and Mama?”

Herta blinked. Ruan Mei let out a quiet, trembling breath.

“You never have to ask,” Herta said, voice low. “That’s who we are.”

“And you’re our daughter,” Ruan Mei added, voice catching slightly. “Always.”

Elara nodded slowly, eyes growing heavier. “Even if the past bleeds through sometimes?”

“Especially then,” Herta said.

Ruan Mei leaned in, resting her head against Elara’s shoulder. “We’ll hold all your pieces. Even the ones that hurt.”

As Elara’s breathing slowed and sleep finally began to take her, she reached out blindly, one small hand searching until it found both of theirs. She held on tightly.

And they held her back — steady, warm, and unshaken.

The past had broken through the surface tonight, sharp and unforgiving. But it hadn’t broken her.

And in the quiet, with fever fading and fears spoken aloud, something stronger than pain took root.

Family.

The lights in the room had shifted to a warmer tone, mimicking afternoon sun. It cast long, soft beams through the lab windowpanes, dancing faintly across the wall beside Elara’s bed.

Herta sat quietly beside her, arms crossed, datapad forgotten on the nearby desk. She hadn’t moved in a while — only the occasional glance toward the small, sleeping form curled in the blankets.

But when Elara stirred at last, letting out a tiny cough and squirming beneath the covers, Herta was already leaning in.

“Elara,” she said softly, brushing a cool hand against her temple. “Time to wake up.”

Elara blinked blearily, nose scrunched, her violet eyes unfocused. “Mmmnnn…”

“Your fever’s down,” Herta added, gentler than usual. “We need to get something in your stomach.”

Elara rolled onto her side, frowning. “Noooo… tummy all squishy…”

“You haven’t eaten since last night,” Herta said. “And you threw up everything before that. You need something mild.”

Elara grumbled, half-buried beneath her pillow. “But… m’still tired… my legs feel like jelly soup…”

Herta smirked faintly. “You sound better already.”

“Nooo,” Elara protested dramatically, squinting one eye open. “I’m in danger. I got jelly bones. Serious.”

Herta chuckled, then lifted the edge of the blanket. “Then it’s even more important you eat.”

After some whining and wiggling, Elara finally allowed herself to be scooped up — still warm and floppy, but no longer burning. Herta settled her into her arms, carrying her toward the lounge where a soft couch and a small bowl of rice porridge waited.

Ruan Mei had left it cooling on the table.

Elara blinked at the food suspiciously. “It’s mushy.”

“It’s soft,” Herta corrected, sitting her down and placing the bowl gently in front of her. “Easier on your stomach.”

“...It smell like sleepy rice,” Elara muttered, poking it with her spoon.

Herta handed her a little cup of warm water and didn’t press further. Elara finally took a few tiny bites — slow, messy, but determined — like she was doing something very important.

Halfway through the bowl, she perked up slightly. “Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“Do stars got names we don’t know yet?”

Herta tilted her head. “Some, yes.”

“Can I name one? If I find it?”

“Of course.”

Elara grinned, then furrowed her brow. “What if it not born yet? Like… what if a star is hiding in a big hug of gas and it doesn’t even know it’s gonna be a star?”

Herta paused, surprised. “That’s... a very good question.”

“Mhm,” Elara said, swaying as she ate another bite. “Maybe it dreams first. Before it burns.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that Herta didn’t know how to respond.

Elara kept eating like nothing had happened, lips moving silently as if she was doing calculations no child her age should even know how to begin.

When she finished, she handed the spoon over solemnly. “Okay. I ate the mush. I want cartoons.”

Herta blinked. “Cartoons?”

“Yuh-huh. With the bunnies.”

Without argument, Herta set the tray aside and gathered Elara gently back into her lap, reaching for the projector remote.

She turned on the screen. Bright shapes and squeaky voices filled the room as Elara melted into her arms, dozing in and out with a full belly and faint smile.

Later, once Elara was fully asleep again, Ruan Mei returned.

She sat beside Herta quietly, watching Elara with a faint smile, her voice low and thoughtful.

“She was asking about star formation.”

Herta nodded. “Out of nowhere. Between complaining about the porridge and requesting bunny cartoons.”

Ruan Mei folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve been noticing it more and more. These… shifts.”

“Shifts?” Herta asked.

“In her cognition. Her language, attention, reasoning. There are moments when she talks exactly like a typical four-year-old — tantrums, nonsense words, imaginary jelly bones. But then she’ll say something like ‘maybe a star dreams before it burns.’”

Herta’s brow furrowed. “You think it’s memory leakage?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not just knowledge. It’s the awareness behind it,” Ruan Mei said, voice hushed. “Like something old flickering behind her eyes. Then it’s gone again.”

“She’s not just remembering facts,” Herta said slowly. “She’s… toggling between identities.”

Ruan Mei nodded. “Between who she is now… and who she might have been. Or will become.”

They both looked toward the couch, where Elara lay snuggled beneath a blanket, her mouth slightly open, a cartoon bunny frozen mid-jump on the screen beside her.

“She’s still just a little girl,” Herta murmured.

“She is,” Ruan Mei agreed. “But she’s also something more. Something that’s still waking up.”

Herta didn’t speak, but the weight in her chest deepened.

Ruan Mei leaned her head on Herta’s shoulder. “We’ll guide her through it. Whatever this is. We’ll help her hold both.”

Herta nodded slowly, resting her cheek against Ruan Mei’s hair. “We’ll make sure she never has to carry it alone.”

And in the gentle quiet of the afternoon, the hum of the projector and the steady rhythm of Elara’s breathing filled the space with something tender — a promise that no matter how strange or overwhelming her path became, she would always have hands to hold onto.

Dinner had been quiet — not from discomfort, but from the hush that follows exhaustion. Elara had barely managed more than a few bites of rice and soup, nodding off between spoonfuls, her head gently resting against Ruan Mei’s arm.

Now, the hum of the bathwater running filled the air.

Ruan Mei sat at the edge of the tub in the private washroom, sleeves rolled up and hands carefully wetting a soft cloth. The steam curled around her like ribbons, catching the faint scent of mint leaves she’d dissolved into the water. Elara sat in the shallow tub, her small frame sunk deep into the warmth, shoulders slouched, hair limp and darkened with water.

She didn’t complain this time. No giggling splashes. No stubborn arguments about “not dirty” or “I already cleaned my ears with magic.”

She just let Ruan Mei work — quiet, blinking slow, every now and then leaning her head against her mama’s arm.

“You're doing so well,” Ruan Mei murmured, brushing gentle circles across Elara’s back. “Just a little longer, sweetheart. The water will help your fever.”

Elara gave a sleepy hum, barely above a whisper. “It’s like... the warm hugs… but from the outside.”

Ruan Mei smiled softly at that, leaning down to kiss her damp forehead. “Exactly like that.”

Meanwhile, in Elara’s room, Herta moved briskly but carefully. She had opened the drawers and storage bins, sorting through neatly folded pajamas — some of them custom-sized, some chosen by Ruan Mei for softness, and one set with glittery rocket ships Elara insisted made her dreams “go faster.”

Herta held those up.

“Those,” she said aloud to no one, “will do.”

Behind her, two of her puppets shuffled into the room, obediently floating toward the bed with new sheets, fresh pillowcases, and a folded blanket with star patterns. Without needing direction, they stripped the bedding with efficiency — sheets whisked away, old plushies dusted and rotated, corners tucked with practiced precision.

Herta checked their work with a clinical eye. Then paused.

“Add the galaxy projector back. Center it this time.”

The puppets obeyed without question.

She placed the pajamas on the newly made bed, smoothing the collar once before turning toward the door.

When Ruan Mei reentered the room, holding a wrapped-up Elara against her chest, Herta was already waiting with a dry towel.

“She didn’t fuss?”

“No,” Ruan Mei said softly. “She’s tired. Too tired to pretend she’s not.”

Elara mumbled something sleepily, head nuzzling into Ruan Mei’s shoulder. Her damp hair clung to her forehead. Her skin was cooler now — not normal, not yet, but better.

Herta stepped forward, holding out the soft space-themed pajamas. “Rocket ones.”

Elara stirred faintly. “Dream speed… activate.”

Together, they dressed her in the warm clothes, drying her hair with a fluffy towel and bundling her in fresh blankets. Then Ruan Mei carried her to the bed while Herta adjusted the pillows behind her.

Elara barely noticed the way the room glowed now — soft stars spinning across the ceiling.

“Is… this the real sky?” she asked in a voice like feathers.

“No,” Herta said. “But it’s yours.”

“That’s okay,” Elara whispered, eyes already slipping closed. “Mine is good.”

Ruan Mei knelt beside her, placing a kiss against her forehead. “Goodnight, my starlight.”

Herta lingered at the edge of the bed, then leaned down and kissed her as well.

“Sleep safe, Elara.”

She didn’t answer, already drifting. One hand curled against her blanket, the other reaching blindly for theirs — and when it found both, she sighed, content.

Ruan Mei stayed at her side.

Herta sat down nearby.

And in the glow of the simulated stars, under clean sheets and with two hearts holding her close, Elara slept.

This time, there were no nightmares.

Only dreams.

Chapter Text

A soft hand smoothed down Elara’s cheek.

“Elara… sweetheart, time to wake up,” Ruan Mei whispered, brushing away a strand of damp hair from her forehead. “The worst of your fever’s gone. We just need to freshen up and get some food in you, okay?”

“Mmnnhhh,” came the groggy reply. Elara shifted under the blanket, curling deeper into the warmth like a stubborn crocus in early spring. “But Mama… I just fell asleep like… twelve seconds ago…”

Ruan Mei chuckled gently, already reaching for a clean set of pajamas and soft, plain socks she’d set aside earlier. “That was hours ago, love. I promise, you’ll feel better after a bath.”

“Nu-uh…” Elara whined. “Too sleepy to exist.”

“You don’t have to exist too hard,” Ruan Mei said with a smile. “Just let Mommy help you with your bath, and I’ll get your breakfast and medicine ready.”

Elara opened one bleary eye. “Mommy’s gonna do it?”

Herta, standing at the doorway, crossed her arms. “Yes, I’ve been drafted into bathtub duty. Apparently my reputation for emotional detachment doesn’t exempt me from sponge work.”

“You’ll be amazing at it,” Ruan Mei said sweetly, then turned back to Elara with a kiss to her forehead. “And I’ll check your temperature right after, alright? If it’s low enough, we’ll do cartoons again. Bunny ones.”

“…Deal,” Elara mumbled.

Herta stepped forward and lifted the small bundle of warmth and pout from the blankets with surprising ease. “Come on, jelly bones. Let’s get you waterlogged.”

As she carried Elara out of the room, Elara muttered, “If I dissolve in the tub, Mommy has to turn me into soup…”

“Noted,” Herta deadpanned.

The private washroom was quiet, lit by gentle overhead lights and a subtle lavender mist diffusing through the vents. Herta had already filled the tub, adjusting the temperature with clinical precision—perfectly warm, not a degree too hot.

Elara sat in the water, knees drawn up, tiny hands resting on the rim of the tub. Her violet eyes were half-lidded, hair damp and clinging to her cheeks. “I feel like a soggy mooncake…”

“You look like one,” Herta replied without missing a beat, wringing out a soft cloth and dabbing it along Elara’s back. “Floppy and mildly tragic.”

“Moooommyyy,” Elara groaned, though her lips curled at the corners.

“You wanted jokes.”

“I want juice,” she muttered. “And a crown. And maybe a cape.”

“We’ll see what the lab budget allows,” Herta said dryly, moving to rinse her hair with a small cup. “Tilt back. I don’t want soap in your eyes.”

Elara obeyed sluggishly, letting her head rest against Herta’s palm. For a long moment, she was still, eyes closed, face relaxed. Then, very softly, she asked, “Why did you learn how to do this? You don’t like… squishy stuff.”

Herta’s hands slowed.

“I didn’t,” she admitted. “Not until you.”

Elara blinked at her.

“I’m not good with people. Or comfort. But I wanted to know how to make you feel safe,” Herta continued, quieter now. “So I studied. Like I do with everything else.”

“Like science?”

“Exactly like science,” Herta said, brushing the last of the shampoo from her hair. “Except softer.”

Elara’s voice was barely audible. “I like it when you learn me.”

Herta looked at her, startled for a moment.

Then, with uncharacteristic gentleness, she smiled. “So do I.”

Ruan Mei stood quietly in Elara’s room for a moment, the warmth of early morning brushing through the soft lighting above. The air still held the faintest hint of lavender from the night before. On the edge of the neatly made bed sat the pajamas she’d pulled earlier — the fuzzy star-covered set Elara had worn once and declared her “dream-speed uniform.” But as Ruan Mei stared at them, she hesitated.

Something gentler, softer, felt right today.

She opened the bottom drawer and sifted through the neatly folded stacks until her fingers paused over a cream-colored set — long-sleeved, button-down top, trimmed with delicate lilac piping. The fabric was soft, breathable, and came with plain matching socks.

Simple. Warm. Comforting.

She smoothed the sleeves thoughtfully, then gathered the bundle in her arms. “You don’t need dream-speed today,” she murmured softly to herself. “Just comfort.”

With Elara’s clothes chosen and laid out beside a folded towel, Ruan Mei stepped into the kitchen, rolling her sleeves up to her elbows. The space was quiet except for the soft hiss of the water boiler. Steam curled lazily from the pot on the stove — a small batch of rice porridge already simmering, its surface rippling gently as she stirred in ginger slivers and a faint trace of osmanthus syrup.

No noise. No pressure.

Just the rhythm of care.

She moved without thinking, body gliding through a familiar routine: slicing a peeled peach into tiny wedges, measuring Elara’s antipyretic syrup to the decimal, setting out a fresh thermometer beside a small hand towel. Even the spoon she chose had a rounded handle with stars printed down its neck.

As she arranged everything on a polished tray, her eyes drifted to a small note stuck under a magnet near the tea tin. The handwriting was childish and uneven, one corner smudged with a bit of crayon:

Dear mama, I don't like the bitter tea, I like the star one better.

P.S. I gave your shoe a bunny. Hope it hops! -Elara

Ruan Mei chuckled under her breath, running her thumb along the bottom of the note. “You clever little star.”

She opened the tea cabinet and pulled out the herbal blend Elara referred to as “star tea” — an infusion of chamomile, dried apple skin, and sweet chrysanthemum. The smell was delicate and calming. Not too bitter, not too sweet.

Perfect for a recovering four-year-old who dreamed about stars and remembered things she shouldn’t.

The kettle whistled gently, and she poured the water slowly, steeping the herbs with practiced care. As the scent filled the space, Ruan Mei hummed under her breath — a lullaby from her childhood, unbidden but warm.

Then, with the tea brewed, the peach sliced, and the porridge resting in a covered bowl to cool just enough, she arranged everything carefully on the tray: food, medicine, thermometer, a fresh glass of lukewarm water, and the softest napkin she could find.

She paused, straightened the spoon, and smiled softly to herself.

“Breakfast, medicine, pajamas… all prepared. Let’s hope she doesn’t ask for pudding, too.”

Just then, the soft shuffle of slippers echoed from the hallway.

Herta entered, holding a towel-wrapped, freshly bathed Elara in her arms. The girl’s damp hair was plastered to her forehead, and her eyes were only half-open — but her fingers were curled loosely into Herta’s collar like she didn’t want to let go.

“She’s clean,” Herta reported with a deadpan tone. “Minimal resistance. Occasional whining. At one point she tried to baptize me with shampoo.”

“I told you I was ‘moon soup,’” Elara mumbled into Herta’s shoulder.

Ruan Mei smiled and reached out. “Her pajamas are folded on the bed — the soft cream set with lilac trim. I’ll get breakfast ready while you dress her?”

Herta gave a small, resigned nod. “Yes. I’ll try to avoid death by limp noodle child.”

As Ruan Mei slipped past them, tray in hand, Herta sat on the edge of the bed and adjusted the sleepy girl in her lap. Elara blinked slowly, eyes bleary but trusting.

“You’ll have to help a little,” Herta murmured, gently unwrapping the towel and patting her dry.

Elara let her arms and legs be moved like soft clay, yawning with each limb that was pulled through a sleeve or guided into a sock. Herta worked efficiently but gently, buttoning the front of the shirt, tucking in the hem, adjusting the fabric so it wouldn’t bunch uncomfortably.

She paused at the small drawer beside the bed and pulled out a hairbrush and a set of soft, fabric ties.

Elara made a sleepy noise. “Are you gonna science my hair?”

“I’m going to tame it,” Herta corrected. “Before it gains sentience.”

She brushed carefully, starting at the ends to avoid tugging. Elara hummed quietly under her breath — not a song, just a comfort sound. When Herta began weaving the hair into a loose braid, Elara relaxed further, her eyes drifting closed again.

“You know,” Herta said softly as she tied off the end, “some stars rotate so fast they flatten a little.”

“Mmm,” Elara mumbled. “I think my head’s spinning like that…”

“You’ll be alright,” Herta murmured, smoothing the braid down her back. “You’re already cooling off.”

Elara leaned her head against Herta’s chest. “You made it feel soft. Like clouds in my hair.”

Herta blinked — caught off guard by the imagery — then gently brushed a thumb across her cheek. “Clouds are made of water vapor. You’re mostly water. It tracks.”

“Then I’m a fog baby,” Elara mumbled.

“Then I’ll keep you from evaporating,” Herta said, quietly, almost to herself.

Just then, Ruan Mei peeked in with a tray balanced in her arms. “Warm porridge and tea incoming.”

“I’ll carry her,” Herta said, already lifting the small girl gently into her arms.

Elara didn’t protest this time. She just curled up against her, half-asleep, half-safe.

“She has declared me her temporary nest,” Herta reported dryly as she passed by Ruan Mei.

“I don’t think she minds being carried,” Ruan Mei said with a smile, following them into the lounge.

Elara stirred faintly. “Mama made the good mush, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Herta confirmed. “And if you don’t eat it, she’ll make me eat it. So do us both a favor.”

Elara let out a weak giggle, cheeks slightly pink — and this time, it wasn’t from the fever.

Ruan Mei watched them both from behind, the corners of her mouth curling up in something quiet and deeply fond.

And with that, they settled into the lounge together — not for science or strategy, but for breakfast and warmth.

The lounge was quiet, touched with golden light from the ceiling panels simulating early sun. Elara sat nestled in Herta’s lap on the couch, a blanket draped around her shoulders like a cape. Her bowl of porridge rested on a small tray across her legs, the steam curling lazily in front of her sleepy face.

“Careful,” Ruan Mei murmured, kneeling in front of them to guide Elara’s hand to the spoon. “Small bites.”

Elara obeyed without protest — spooning mushy porridge into her mouth like it was her life’s mission. She chewed with exaggerated effort, eyelids drooping. “Tastes like sleepy rice,” she mumbled.

“That’s because it’s meant to soothe you,” Ruan Mei smiled, brushing a few wisps of hair behind Elara’s ear. “There’s ginger and a bit of sweet flower syrup.”

“...Can I have pudding after?”

“You can have cartoons after,” Herta said without looking up from the cup of tea she was holding for Elara.

“But pudding is a cartoon for the mouth,” Elara replied seriously.

Herta paused. “That’s… annoyingly clever.”

They stayed like that for a few more minutes — Ruan Mei refilling the tea, Herta wiping a stray drop of porridge from Elara’s chin, and Elara occasionally pausing between bites to watch a star-shaped plush dance across the projector screen. There was nothing dramatic, no urgent theories or equipment buzzing — just warmth, and soft murmurs, and the quiet rhythm of recovery.

By the time Elara finished half the bowl, her head was already slumping against Herta’s shoulder again. Her fever had gone down, but she was still pale and sleepy, her limbs heavy.

A knock tapped gently at the doorframe. Asta stepped in with a smile, holding a datapad to her chest. “Sorry to interrupt… I’m here to help.”

“Right on time,” Ruan Mei said as she stood, brushing her skirt smooth. “We’ll be out for a few hours. We need to check something important.”

“She’s still recovering,” Herta added, adjusting the blanket around Elara. “The fever’s breaking, but she needs rest. No strenuous activity. No stimulation.”

“No experiments,” Ruan Mei added, half-joking, half-not.

Asta gave a mock salute. “Got it. No jumping, no spinning, no Edisonian lightning games.”

“Also no pudding before lunch,” Herta said firmly.

Elara whimpered sleepily. “Traitors…”

Herta ignored her. “Keep the room quiet. If she gets fussy, project the bunny cartoon.”

“I already cued it up,” Asta said brightly, kneeling to Elara’s level. “Hey, sweetheart. Think you can snuggle with me for a little while and be our best resting star?”

Elara blinked slowly at her. “Only if you have the bunny blanket.”

Asta grinned. “I always have the bunny blanket.”

With practiced ease, she took Elara into her arms — gently, carefully — and settled her against her shoulder. Elara sighed deeply, burying her face in Asta’s hair.

“Smells like strawberry shampoo,” she mumbled.

“I’ll take that as approval.”

Herta and Ruan Mei lingered for a moment longer. Then Herta stepped forward, adjusting the braid she’d done earlier, her voice softer now. “We’ll be back before long.”

Ruan Mei knelt to kiss her forehead. “Rest, my starlight. We’ll tell you what we find.”

Elara gave the smallest nod.

And then, with a final shared look between them, Ruan Mei and Herta turned toward the corridor — toward the place where their past, and Elara’s beginning, still waited in silence.

The diagnostic console blinked to life, rows of data scrolling across the glass like a heartbeat. Herta stood with her arms folded, expression taut with focus, while Ruan Mei knelt beside the main drive panel, rerouting system logs from the past forty-eight hours.

“I knew something was off,” Herta muttered. “The calibration on Unit H-09’s feedback stream cut out for precisely eight seconds last night.”

“Eight seconds?” Ruan Mei echoed, typing swiftly. “That’s long enough for a pulse disruption.”

“Or total core collapse.”

The logs finally loaded — a full activity trace of Herta’s puppet network. Herta’s eyes scanned the timestamps, but Ruan Mei saw it first.

“There,” she said, pointing. “03:16:47 system time. Unit H-09. Sudden spike in internal pressure… and then nothing. Hard stop. No shutdown protocol. No kill command.”

“Self-implosion,” Herta said grimly. “Without any prompt.”

“But why?” Ruan Mei whispered, staring at the data in disbelief. “That puppet is tethered directly to your subconscious interface. Passive feedback only, no offensive routines, no manual overrides—”

She stopped mid-sentence.

Herta turned toward her, already knowing.

“It’s the exact moment I died,” Ruan Mei said softly, voice almost brittle. “In the timeline where Elara came from.”

Silence.

The hum of the console seemed louder now, more ominous.

“They’re psychically linked to you,” Ruan Mei went on. “Each one a fragment of your focus, your mind. If the tethered network felt your death through time…”

Herta was already moving toward the side terminal, fingers flying across the interface. “Then there’s residual echo — sympathetic quantum feedback. Some part of my system registered your death across timelines.”

“And the puppet responded as if mourning,” Ruan Mei finished.

Herta didn’t respond right away. She stared at the fragmented visual of the last moments of Unit H-09 — a flash of static, a soft implosion, then flatline.

Finally, she said, “It didn’t just fail. It reacted.”

Ruan Mei swallowed. “Then whatever happened that night — the night Elara appeared — wasn’t just a localized anomaly. It ruptured the web of cause and effect.”

Herta straightened. “We need to go back. To the lab where she appeared.”

“You mean—”

“Not just to look,” Herta interrupted. “To measure it. If the rupture is still bleeding through, we might still be able to triangulate the breach point. And if Elara is really a product of a fractured timeline…”

“Then the lab might still be echoing with the moment of her arrival,” Ruan Mei finished for her.

They exchanged a glance.

Not fear — but something colder. Heavier. Wonder wrapped in dread.

“We’ll have limited time before temporal residue decays completely,” Herta said, already pulling up the map schematic. “The scanner cores and field stabilizers should still be in the storeroom—”

“I’ll get the resonance probes,” Ruan Mei said, voice calm but tight. “And the atmospheric isolators. Just in case.”

They turned in sync, heading for opposite wings of the station — the kind of practiced coordination only years of collaboration and near-disaster could forge.

Behind them, the console continued to scroll silently — frozen on the moment one of Herta’s puppets collapsed at the exact instant Ruan Mei had died in another timeline.

One life lost.

One child gained.

And the truth still waiting in the dark, beneath cold lights and broken echoes.

The door to the restricted lab hissed open with a groan, the seal breaking after weeks of disuse. Cold, filtered air flowed past their ankles like mist, and for a moment, the lights overhead flickered — as if the room recognized its visitors.

Herta stepped in first, her boots clicking softly against the polished floor. Ruan Mei followed close behind, carrying the field stabilizer in one hand and the resonance probe tucked beneath her arm.

“It feels colder in here,” Ruan Mei murmured.

“Temperature’s normal,” Herta replied. “That’s temporal residue. The kind that happens after reality’s been bent the wrong direction.”

They passed the central platform — the very spot where Elara had first appeared. It looked ordinary now. Clean. Controlled. But Herta could feel the pressure behind the air, like something had burst open here and stitched itself shut before anyone could notice.

Ruan Mei knelt beside the pedestal and placed the stabilizer down gently. “If she really was sent back in time, the breach would have had to last long enough for her physical body to cross it.”

Herta’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t fall through a crack. She was sent.”

She walked to the corner of the room and pressed her palm against a small panel — one hidden from most schematics. A concealed compartment opened with a quiet hiss, revealing a secure file core and a spherical containment unit.

Ruan Mei’s breath caught.

“You saved this…”

“I didn’t remember doing it until recently,” Herta said, lifting the containment sphere. “The instructions. The predictive files. The override keys. Everything Elara would need to exist.”

She turned it slowly in her hands. “I told you once — she wasn’t a mistake. She was a loop.”

Ruan Mei moved closer. “So this… this was the delivery system?”

“A resonance core disguised as a plaything. Something small enough for a child to hold, but dense enough to withstand transit across timelines.” Herta’s voice dropped. “I told you to throw it to her. Before the world collapsed.”

“I remember…” Ruan Mei whispered. “Only in fragments. But I remember.”

They stood in silence, both looking down at the sphere that had once launched Elara into the past — and into their lives.

Elara slept restlessly under the bunny blanket, her breathing shallow, fingers twitching occasionally. Asta sat nearby, datapad forgotten in her lap, gently brushing a hand over the child’s hair now and then.

The projector had dimmed, but the room still glowed softly with animated starlight.

In Elara’s dream, the stars weren’t just shapes — they were alive.

She stood in a place with no floor, no sky. Just spirals of stardust and magic swirling around her. And from that storm stepped a familiar figure.

Herta.

But not like usual. Her white coat shimmered like enchanted cloth, stitched with glowing runes. Her eyes glowed violet. Her hands weaved geometric patterns in the air, and galaxies spun around her wrists like charms.

“Mommy?” Elara asked, her voice echoing.

“You won’t remember this fully,” Herta said, voice like a lullaby made of logic. “But you asked to go back. You said you wanted to change things. And you could only do it if you forgot.”

Elara’s brow furrowed. “But… you were crying.”

“I was,” Herta whispered. “Because I knew I had to send you away.”

Another figure formed beside her — Ruan Mei, cradling a glowing orb in her hands. Her smile trembled.

“She caught it,” Herta said. “The last chance. She held the memory. And she threw it to you — the little you — right as the world unraveled.”

Elara looked down at her hands.

The ball was there now. Glowing, humming softly like a heartbeat.

“Why me?” she asked. “Why not someone smarter… or older?”

“Because no one else would care the way you do,” Ruan Mei said gently. “You weren’t made to be perfect. You were made to feel.”

The dream began to ripple, the light bending.

“Don’t be afraid when you remember,” Herta said as she knelt in front of her. “The past is heavy. But you’re stronger than it.”

Ruan Mei knelt beside her. “We’ll be here when you wake up. You’ll never be alone in it again.”

Elara reached out, grabbing both their hands — but before she could speak, the dream cracked like glass—

And she stirred in Asta’s lap with a tiny, startled gasp.

Asta immediately leaned in. “Shh… it’s alright. You’re safe.”

Elara blinked up at her, dazed, then whispered, “I saw… Mommy and Mama. But they were glowing. They looked like… magic.”

Asta blinked. “Well. That tracks.”

“They said I threw the stars backwards,” Elara murmured, eyes fluttering shut again. “And caught them.”

Asta wrapped the blanket tighter around her, cradling her against her shoulder.

“I don’t know what that means,” she whispered to the quiet room, “but I think you do.”

And Elara, now drifting back into peaceful sleep, gave the tiniest smile.

The resonance probe hummed low against the lab floor. Ruan Mei adjusted the sensor’s angle, watching as the readings flickered and glitched—then stabilized into a jagged waveform.

“There,” she said, pointing. “Spatial frequency distortion. And it’s anchored.”

Herta frowned. “Still persisting after all this time… That’s not a residual echo. That’s a tear.”

She adjusted her own scanner and walked toward the center of the lab — the exact spot where Elara had first appeared, curled up in the middle of the floor, covered in light and silence. The air felt thicker here. Like breathing through velvet.

Ruan Mei pulled up a holographic overlay. “The breach was one-way, but not passive. Something was pushed through, from the collapsing future.”

Herta narrowed her eyes. “It wasn’t a random escape. She was sent — like a message encoded in living matter.”

Her fingers flew across the console. The projected timeline began to deform and reconstruct: a thread of energy looping backward, stretching, fraying at the edges… and then snapping into place at this very location.

“She didn’t fall through,” Herta said. “We wrote the equation. We calculated her into existence.”

Ruan Mei stared at the model, her heart pounding. “Herta… if that’s true… then all of this—her memories, her body, her soul—they weren’t just a side effect of temporal collapse.”

“They were the solution,” Herta whispered.

The realization landed with weight. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“She is Experiment N.O.V.A.,” Ruan Mei said softly. “New Organic Viable Ascendant. Not a prototype. Not a fluke.”

“But a convergence,” Herta finished. “Of science and soul. Of logic and choice. And we made her. Not just in a lab… but in the shape of our love.”

Ruan Mei’s throat tightened. “No wonder the puppet collapsed. The moment of my death—it was the trigger. The price. And Elara was the answer.”

The readings pulsed once more, and the waveform locked in: stable, undeniable.

She had come from a dying timeline — not as a refugee, but as a gift.

And they had been the ones to give her.

The lab’s sterile light hummed softly as Herta and Ruan Mei sat side by side, the glowing files between them open to the same pages, the acronym N.O.V.A. — New Organic Viable Ascendant repeated over and over.

Neither spoke for several long moments.

Herta’s fingers traced the edges of the document like it was a fragile relic. “We… we remember some things. Bits and pieces. The name. The experiments. The codes. But it’s like trying to hold sand.”

Ruan Mei nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the glowing text. “It feels like the memories were locked away. Suppressed. Like we’re only just unlocking the door.”

“I can’t tell if the pain is from what we remember or what we don’t,” Herta whispered.

“We know she’s not just a project,” Ruan Mei said quietly. “There’s more… something deeper, but it’s still just beyond reach.”

Their hands brushed briefly over the console, a small anchor in the drifting sea of forgotten truths.

“We keep reading the same words,” Herta said, voice cracking a little. “N.O.V.A. keeps echoing through my mind.”

Ruan Mei exhaled, leaning back.

Down the hall, in a softly lit room lined with plush toys and gentle lights, Elara rested quietly in Asta’s care.

The fever had mostly faded, but her small face still held a fragile flush. She sat wrapped in the bunny blanket, coloring with thick crayons on a pad balanced in her lap.

Asta watched from the doorway, arms crossed but smile gentle.

“Elara,” she said softly, stepping inside, “you’re doing great.”

Elara didn’t look up right away, concentrating hard on a messy scribble of stars and planets. “Mama and Mommy have stars in their hands.”

Asta’s eyebrows lifted. “Stars in their hands?”

Elara nodded seriously, tapping the paper. “Magic stars. Like glowing threads. Mommy Herta’s hands make them.”

Asta crouched beside her. “That sounds pretty special.”

“It is,” Elara said, then yawned, rubbing her eyes. “I had a dream. Mommy Herta was a sorceress.”

“Maybe she is,” Asta smiled, brushing damp hair back from Elara’s forehead.

Elara’s fingers lingered on the drawing, tracing the lines without really seeing. “I’m tired, Asta. But I want to know who I am.”

Asta’s voice softened. “You’re you, Elara. And that’s more than enough.”

The girl blinked slowly, then snuggled closer against Asta’s shoulder. “I want to keep dreaming of stars.”

Asta wrapped an arm around her gently. “We’ll make sure you can.”

For a long moment, the room was filled only with quiet breathing and the soft glow of starlight.

And somewhere, far away, Herta’s magic hummed faintly as she and Ruan Mei searched for the missing pieces.

Chapter Text

The door to the suite hissed open with a soft chime.

Warm air and gentle light spilled out from within, casting a golden glow across the threshold. Ruan Mei stepped in first, slipping off her shoes with practiced ease, followed by Herta, who immediately scanned the room with sharp eyes — not for threats, but for signs of any discomfort in the one person who now lived rent-free in her logic circuits.

Asta looked up from the couch and offered a tired but reassuring smile. “She’s been resting most of the evening,” she whispered. “Still a little drowsy, but the fever’s barely there now. We had quiet time and bunny cartoons, like you said.”

“She behave?” Herta asked, lowering her voice, but not her tone.

Asta laughed softly. “She kept trying to hide the last peach wedge under the napkin, said it was for the star bunnies.”

Ruan Mei exhaled, the tension in her shoulders loosening. “That sounds like her.”

“She also asked if clouds were edible,” Asta added. “Then insisted I write it down for Mommy to test.”

“I will not be feeding her weather,” Herta replied flatly.

“You say that now…” Asta teased, stepping aside.

Elara was nestled on the corner of the couch, bundled beneath the bunny blanket like a little dumpling of pastel warmth. Her eyes were open, but hazy, drifting in and out of focus. She didn’t move when they approached — only blinked slowly, as if confirming the shapes before her were real.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Ruan Mei said gently, kneeling by her side. “Did you miss us?”

Elara gave the tiniest nod. “Did you go to the stars?”

“Sort of,” Ruan Mei smiled. “We went to where you first appeared. We’re starting to understand more.”

“‘Kay,” Elara murmured. Her hand twitched under the blanket. “I drew you a star with sleepy arms… but I forgot to give it legs.”

Herta crouched beside her, brushing her bangs back to check her temperature the old-fashioned way — skin to skin. “Stars don’t need legs. They just burn and wobble.”

“That’s what I said,” Elara whispered, voice barely there. “But Asta said I should still give it a hat.”

“She’s not wrong,” Herta murmured, placing a digital thermometer under Elara’s arm. “Even celestial bodies need flair.”

Elara let out a tiny puff of breath that might have been a laugh. “I’m tired…”

“We’re home now,” Ruan Mei said, wrapping her fingers around the small hand that reached for her. “And it’s time for bed.”

Beep.

Herta pulled out the thermometer, scanning the numbers. “37.2. Not ideal, but acceptable.”

Elara turned her face into the blanket. “Mommy… Mama… Can I have both?”

The room was quiet for a heartbeat.

Then Herta’s arms were already around her, lifting her up with quiet efficiency but infinite care. Elara curled instinctively against her shoulder, fingers clutching the edge of Herta’s collar like a kitten clinging to familiar warmth. She didn't resist. She just breathed.

“Always both,” Ruan Mei whispered, placing a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

Elara gave a slow nod, eyelids drooping again. “Okay… but I get middle…”

“You always get the middle,” Herta deadpanned.

“It’s the best spot,” Elara mumbled. “It smells like love.”

Herta blinked, visibly thrown off, and Ruan Mei quickly looked away to hide her smile.

“Come on,” Herta said more quietly now, brushing her thumb across Elara’s cheek. “Let’s get you to bed before you start philosophizing again.”

“Too late,” Elara whispered. “I already wondered why time is sleepy…”

Ruan Mei gave a soft laugh and followed close behind as Herta carried their daughter toward the bedroom, her voice already dropping into something lullaby-soft.

Behind them, Asta gently folded the bunny blanket left behind, smiling as she whispered to the empty room:

“She really does get the best spot.”

The scent of osmanthus still lingered faintly in the suite, mingling with the faint steam from the herbal rice soup Ruan Mei had reheated for herself. She had barely taken two bites before setting the bowl aside, eyes already drifting toward the bedroom.

Herta sat near her, one leg tucked beneath her as she scrolled through a holographic data sheet. But even she hadn’t spoken in minutes. The silence between them wasn’t tense — just full. Full of things they had read. Felt. Remembered.

It was Asta who broke it first, slipping into the room with a quiet smile. “She’s dozing off again,” she said gently. “But her fever’s almost gone. I think she just wants to be near you both.”

Ruan Mei stood immediately. Herta rose a beat later, after saving her work with a slow blink.

“Thank you again,” Ruan Mei said with genuine warmth. “You’ve been wonderful with her.”

“I was just the stand-in,” Asta replied, but her smile lingered a little longer than usual as she made her quiet exit.

In the bedroom, the light was dimmed to a soft lavender hue. Elara was curled under the blanket on the far side of the bed, only her small face and the tips of her fingers peeking out. Her braid had come slightly undone; strands clung to her cheeks with sleep-sweat.

Herta approached first, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing a hand over her forehead. Elara stirred at the touch, blinking up sleepily.

“Mommy?” she mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep and fever.

“I’m here,” Herta said quietly. “Just checking in.”

“Mama too?” came the next question, softer still.

Ruan Mei sat on the other side of the bed and leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m here, love. How are you feeling?”

“Still warm,” Elara sighed. “But… not the scary kind.”

“That’s good,” Ruan Mei whispered, brushing hair from her face.

Elara yawned, her hands reaching blindly toward both women. “I want both. Please… stay.”

Neither of them needed to look at each other — the answer was already mutual.

Ruan Mei slipped her shoes off and lay down on the left side of the bed, curling an arm gently around Elara’s small body. Herta hesitated only briefly before joining them on the right, settling beside her and pulling the blankets higher. Elara wriggled just enough to tuck herself in between, pressing her cheek to Herta’s chest while keeping her fingers twined with Ruan Mei’s.

“Is this okay?” Elara whispered.

Herta rested her chin lightly atop Elara’s head. “It’s perfect.”

Ruan Mei smiled, her voice warm and melodic. “We wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Elara mumbled, “You feel safe. Like the stars before they go to sleep.”

Ruan Mei leaned in closer, murmuring, “Do you want a lullaby, little star?”

Elara nodded faintly. “The kind you sang before…”

“I remember,” Ruan Mei said, and her voice slipped into the gentle, aching melody of

low and soft, like the hum of the universe rocking its child to sleep.

As she sang, Elara’s breathing slowed, her fingers still curled around both their hands. Herta closed her eyes, quietly absorbing the moment, and let herself stay right there — in the warmth, the quiet, and the certainty that this was exactly where they were meant to be.

The sheets were warm, the lights low. One of the star-shaped ceiling bulbs gently pulsed, casting a shifting galaxy of soft purples and blues across the room. Elara lay nestled in the middle of the bed, sandwiched between the steady presence of Herta on one side and the gentle warmth of Ruan Mei on the other. Her tiny hands clung to both of theirs, as if letting go might send her tumbling into another bad dream.

Herta had taken off her coat and left her boots at the door. Ruan Mei had slipped into a soft house robe — something faintly lavender and old, the kind with history stitched into its seams. The three of them shared one large blanket, and for once, the bed didn’t feel too big for Elara.

“Want a story?” Ruan Mei asked softly, brushing her thumb over Elara’s knuckles.

The girl shook her head. “A song.”

Ruan Mei tilted her head. “Any song in mind?”

Elara blinked slowly. “The one Mama hums sometimes. The pretty one... ‘bout... dreams.”

Ruan Mei’s breath hitched just slightly, but she nodded.

“Oh,” she murmured. “That one.”Her voice was quiet at first, a breath more than a melody. But as she began to sing Maddy’s Lullaby, the notes flowed gently, like moonlight in a tidepool. Her voice wove between the syllables like silk thread — fragile, human, warm.

"Sleep, little one... close your eyes.

Your  body's cooling... with the night.

Let your worries... slip away

Tomorrow is... a brand new day"

Elara’s breathing slowed, her eyes blinking in rhythm with the tune. Her tiny fingers loosened, but didn’t let go. Her head shifted to rest partially on Ruan Mei’s arm, and Herta reached over to smooth her bangs again.

"Shimmering moon and.. satin sky.

Soft wind breezes,... lullaby

Dreams are here to... set you free.

The dawn will bring you... back to me.

The dawn will bring you... back to me."

Herta didn’t join the singing. She just listened — still, silent, present — her violet eyes softer than anyone had ever seen them. She looked not just at Elara, but at Ruan Mei, like she was memorizing this moment. Like she was realizing something had already changed, and she hadn’t noticed when.

By the time the last notes faded, Elara was almost asleep.

But not fully.

She shifted just a little and whispered, “Promise… stay?”

Ruan Mei kissed her temple. “Of course, love.”

Herta didn’t say anything — but she tightened her grip just a bit, her hand remaining curled gently around Elara’s.

Three hearts. One rhythm. One breath at a time.

The room was dim and still, lit only by the low pulse of the station lights outside the window. Elara had finally fallen asleep between them, her forehead cool now, her breathing soft and even. Her tiny hand remained wrapped in Herta’s, while her body curled gently against Ruan Mei’s side.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. The quiet didn’t feel awkward. It felt like something sacred.

Ruan Mei looked down at Elara’s peaceful face. “She knew I was scared,” she murmured. “Even when I tried not to be.”

“She held your sleeve the entire time,” Herta replied softly. “And my hand.”

“She didn’t want to let go,” Ruan Mei said. “Like… she remembered losing us.”

Herta didn’t respond right away. Her thumb brushed lightly against Elara’s fingers, thoughtful. “One of my puppets collapsed. Completely severed from the network.”

“That morning?” Ruan Mei asked.

Herta nodded slowly. “The exact moment you—” She paused. “In whatever timeline it happened.”

Ruan Mei swallowed. “I remember dying.”

The words came out flat, but not cold. Just… factual. Herta didn’t flinch, but her gaze lowered, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

“I didn’t know how,” Ruan Mei continued, “or when. Just… falling. Something sharp. And it hurt.”

Herta didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she looked down at the small hand still loosely wrapped around hers. She shifted a little closer, just enough that the blanket tucked in tighter around all three of them.

“I remember it, too,” Herta said. “Your death. And then—something reversed. A pulse. Like… magic.”

She looked down at Elara again. Her fingers tightened slightly around the child’s.

“She’s from the future,” Ruan Mei whispered.

Herta nodded. “We must have sent her back. I don’t remember how. Only that it worked.”

“And that orb,” Ruan Mei said quietly, eyes far away. “I threw it at her.”

Herta glanced up. “You mean the one from her nightmare?”

Ruan Mei nodded. “Blue, glowing. I didn’t even recognize it until she described it… but when she did, I remembered.”

“She arrived with it,” Herta murmured. “And with this.”

She motioned toward the secured briefcase tucked under the desk—its biometric lock still sealed. Inside were the papers, data logs, and classified schematics they had quietly reviewed earlier that day. The folder bore one name across every page:

Project N.O.V.A.
New Organic Viable Ascendant.
Subject: Elara.

“Some version of us created her,” Ruan Mei said. “Somewhere… sometime… before we died.”

“And we sent her here,” Herta added. “Along with the file. The orb. Everything she needed to survive.”

“She knew us,” Ruan Mei whispered. “Before we ever met her. And… we knew her, too.”

Ruan Mei bit her lip, eyes searching the child’s sleeping face. “Maybe some part of her remembers.”

“Not with memory,” Herta said. “But something deeper. Like muscle memory of the heart.”

They sat in silence after that, listening to the gentle rhythm of Elara’s sleep.

“She wasn’t supposed to exist,” Herta murmured. “But she does.”

“And I think she’s the reason we’re still here,” Ruan Mei said.

Elara stirred faintly, murmuring something incoherent before drifting quiet again. Her hand still held on tightly.

“We don’t remember everything,” Ruan Mei said. “But we remember enough.”

Herta nodded. “Enough to keep her safe.”

Neither of them spoke after that.

Eventually, Herta settled back into the pillows. Ruan Mei shifted just enough to ease her arm out from under Elara’s head and curl it protectively around her instead.

Their hands met across Elara’s back.

Neither one let go.

Chapter Text

The room was still.

Soft lavender light filtered through the station’s tinted windows, casting a calm glow across the tangled sheets. Ruan Mei lay curled on her side, one hand resting gently on the small figure nestled between her and Herta. Herta, ever the last to move, had her face buried in the pillow, a single lock of hair falling over her cheek like a drawn curtain. The air was warm, the silence peaceful.

Until it wasn’t.

A tiny form shot upright under the blanket.

Elara blinked once. Then twice. She sat completely still for exactly three seconds before a grin bloomed across her face.

And then she pounced.

“Wake up wake up wake up!!” she shouted, springing to her feet on the mattress like a caffeinated comet. “I’m not sick anymore! My head’s not floaty and my throat doesn’t sound like a robot frog and I had a dream that clouds turn into cake if you hug them hard enough!”

Ruan Mei gave a startled yelp as a foot landed somewhere near her hip. Herta groaned like someone who had been rudely dragged out of hibernation.

“Elara…” Ruan Mei muttered, rubbing her eyes. “Sweetheart. The sun’s barely pretending to rise…”

“I know,” Elara said gleefully. “That’s why we gotta start now! We have to make pancakes and juice and maybe pretend the table is a moon crater!”

Herta shifted, face still half-smothered in the pillow. “Why would the table be a moon crater?”

“For vibes,” Elara answered, as if it were obvious. She bounced again, flopping directly across Herta’s back with all the force a recovering four-year-old could manage. “Mommy, get uuup. You're warm and grumpy like toast.”

“I am not toast,” Herta grumbled.

“You kinda are,” Elara whispered conspiratorially. “You smell like books and toast.”

“I smell like science,” Herta corrected weakly.

“You can be both,” Elara said, snuggling into her. “Science toast.”

Ruan Mei let out a sleepy laugh, sitting up and smoothing her daughter’s hair. “Well, I don’t think we need a thermometer to confirm it. She’s officially back to normal.”

“I’m better than normal!” Elara declared, wriggling out from the blankets and standing proudly on the bed like she was about to give a speech. “I’m mega-ultra-galaxy better! My tummy’s good, my dreams were silly, and I’m starving!”

“I think that’s our cue,” Ruan Mei said, stretching slowly.

Herta peeked out from the blanket and gave her a bleary look. “What time is it?”

“Time to surrender to the four-year-old,” Ruan Mei replied.

Elara scrambled to the edge of the bed. “I’ll get the plates! And forks! And the sparkly napkin!”

She dashed out of the room barefoot, her braid bouncing behind her like a ribbon on a comet.

The room quieted once more.

Herta groaned and sank into the pillow again. “We survived a nightmare, a fever, a potential temporal anomaly… but thisis what finishes me off.”

Ruan Mei chuckled softly while she leaned over and placed a soft kiss on Herta’s cheek. “Come on, toast. She’s up. So we are too.”

Then she rose, slipping into her slippers and making her way to the kitchen with a light hum.

Herta didn’t move for a full five seconds.

Then—slowly—she reached up and touched her cheek where the kiss had landed. Her fingers lingered there, almost suspiciously, like she was running a mental diagnostic. Her eyes flicked toward the doorway. Empty. Her expression softened into something unreadable, and then—

She blushed.

Lightly. Quickly. And very much against her will.

“…I’m malfunctioning,” she muttered, sitting up at last and dragging a hand through her hair.

In the kitchen, things were already dangerously lively.

Elara was standing on a stool, arms spread wide like a miniature war general. “Okay! I’m the star chef, Mama is the calm sous chef, and Mommy—you’re the flip master.”

Herta paused in the doorway.

“Why do I have to be the flip master?” she asked.

“Because you have the ninja hands!” Elara replied matter-of-factly, pointing with her spoon.

“She also,” Ruan Mei added from the counter without looking up, “set the kitchen on fire four times during our last cooking trial.”

“That was not fire,” Herta said flatly. “That was thermal acceleration.”

“That melted the rice cooker.”

“It got results.”

“It got banned from three research labs.”

Elara gasped. “You made fire pancakes?! That’s so cool!”

“I did not make fire pancakes,” Herta snapped, but her tone wobbled under Elara’s awestruck eyes.

“You did now,” Elara said, nodding decisively. “That’s your new power.”

Ruan Mei handed Herta a steaming mug of jasmine tea. “Just… stick to flipping, please. We’d like to keep the fire suppression system uninvolved this morning.”

“I’m perfectly capable of basic heat control,” Herta muttered, accepting the mug and walking to the stove like it might insult her.

Ruan Mei raised a single elegant eyebrow. “Mhm.”

Elara, oblivious to the mounting tension, stirred the batter with ferocious enthusiasm. “This one’s gonna be called ‘Starpuff Supreme!’ And this one is ‘Lunar Yum Yum 5!’ And this one—ooh!—is ‘Supernova Deluxe’ but it’s just a regular pancake that gets extra syrup!”

“Why is syrup the defining metric?” Herta asked, checking the pan with narrowed eyes.

“Because,” Elara said solemnly, “syrup is the spirit of breakfast.”

“Hard to argue,” Ruan Mei murmured, biting back a smile.

Soon, the kitchen was filled with the scent of warm batter and cinnamon. Herta flipped the first pancake with a snap of the wrist—perfect arc, clean landing, no fire.

Elara gasped. “Ninja flip! You did it!”

“Of course I did it,” Herta replied, nose slightly in the air. “I’m a genius.”

Ruan Mei just crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “One down. Three million to go.”

Elara leaned toward the sizzling pan, eyes bright. “This is the best day ever.”

And despite everything, Herta believed her.

The breakfast table was strewn with remnants of their morning feast—plates layered with fluffy galaxy pancakes drizzled in sticky syrup, bowls of fresh fruit, and warm mugs of tea still releasing faint wisps of steam. Elara sat happily between Ruan Mei and Herta, cheeks rosy and eyes bright as she savored each bite.

“Mmm! Mama, this pancake tastes like stars and sunshine!” she exclaimed, syrup glistening on her chin.

Ruan Mei smiled tenderly, brushing a crumb from Elara’s cheek. “That’s because it’s made with a little bit of both.”

Herta watched quietly from her seat, a soft smile playing on her lips. “She’s fully recovered,” she said under her breath.

“Better than ever,” Ruan Mei agreed, rising to clear the dishes. The warmth in the kitchen felt tangible, a quiet comfort after days of worry.

As Herta joined her, the two moved in easy rhythm — rinsing plates, stacking dishes, wiping counters. Their hands brushed more than once, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. The soft kitchen light cast gentle shadows on their faces, making their quiet glances more intimate.

They exchanged a look — a pause filled with unspoken feelings, a shared breath suspended in time.

Slowly, they leaned in, eyes closing, lips almost meeting—

Suddenly, a loud crash shattered the moment.

“Elara?” Herta called, turning toward the sound.

From the kitchen counter, Elara’s small voice trembled, “Mommy! Help! I dropped the syrup bottle!”

Ruan Mei chuckled softly, stepping away from Herta as she hurried over.

On the counter, golden syrup was slowly spreading in a sticky, shining puddle.

Elara’s eyes were wide, a mix of surprise and worry. “I’m sorry…”

Herta crouched beside her, smiling reassuringly. “It’s okay, little star. Accidents happen.”

Ruan Mei fetched a cloth and together they began cleaning the sticky mess, the syrup clinging stubbornly to the smooth surfaces.

Elara watched intently, her earlier distraction forgotten, before shyly reaching for a paper towel to help.

“There you go,” Herta encouraged. “You’re a good helper.”

As the last of the syrup disappeared, Ruan Mei looked down at Elara. “How about we get you cleaned up properly? Time for a bath, little one.”

Elara nodded eagerly, hopping down from the stool. “Yes! Can I bring my star ducky?”

“Of course,” Ruan Mei smiled, taking Elara’s hand gently.

Herta followed behind them into the hallway, watching the small pair with a fond smile. The morning’s quiet moment might have slipped away, but the warmth between them remained — soft, steady, and unbreakable.

The bathroom was filled with the gentle scent of lavender and warm steam, soft light pooling in the corners from the frosted glass windows. Ruan Mei carefully rinsed Elara’s ash-brown hair, her lavender streaks shimmering as the water washed away the last traces of syrup and sleep.

Elara blinked up at her with clear, bright eyes, cheeks flushed with a healthy glow. There was no trace of fever or weakness—only the boundless energy of a child who had rested well and was ready to greet the day.

“I feel all clean and shiny now!” Elara declared, reaching out to splash a bit of water playfully.

Ruan Mei smiled, wrapping her in a thick towel embroidered with tiny silver stars. “Almost done, little star. Let’s get you dried and dressed.”

As Elara sat on the cushioned bench, Herta entered quietly carrying a delicate outfit draped carefully over her arm.

Elara’s eyes lit up instantly.

Herta smiled softly, placing the clothes before her: a flowing, layered dress in soft lilac and cream tones, delicate embroidered flowers catching the light like morning dew. Over the dress lay a cozy lavender cardigan with tiny pearl buttons, perfect for the soft chill of the morning. Nearby rested a pair of cream-colored ankle boots, embroidered with subtle silver stars.

“Your new clothes, Elara,” Herta said gently, brushing a damp strand from Elara’s forehead. “Soft and pretty — just like you.”

Elara’s fingers traced the delicate fabric of the dress, her smile growing wider with excitement. “I want to wear it now!”

Ruan Mei helped Elara stand and step out of the towel. The soft layers of the dress felt cool but gentle against her skin, and the lilac cardigan added just the right warmth.

Elara twirled, the dress swirling around her legs like petals on a breeze. “I feel like I’m floating!”

Herta knelt beside her to fasten the tiny pearl buttons of the cardigan, then picked up the silver crescent moon hairpin. She carefully wove Elara’s damp hair into a loose braid, securing the pin with a gentle smile. “A little moonbeam for our star.”

Elara giggled, touching the pin happily. “Pretty!”

Finally, Ruan Mei helped her slip on the soft cream boots. Elara bounced on her feet, eager and full of life.

“Ready for adventures!” she exclaimed, eyes sparkling.

Herta took her hand, squeezing gently. “Always.”

Ruan Mei smiled, brushing a stray hair back from Elara’s face. “You look wonderful, Elara.”

The room felt warm and peaceful—a perfect moment of family love wrapped in soft fabrics and quiet care.

The soft shuffle of boots echoed down the hallway as the three of them returned from the bath. Elara skipped ahead, arms out like wings, her lavender cardigan fluttering behind her with each step. The silver moon pin in her braid glinted in the ceiling lights, and every few seconds she turned around to make sure Herta and Ruan Mei were still behind her.

When they reached the bedroom, Elara dashed toward the corner where her small basket of toys had been arranged. Her plushes, memory cubes, and stacking blocks greeted her like old friends. Ruan Mei followed her in, kneeling beside her on the soft rug.

"Want to build a sky tower?" Ruan Mei asked, already picking out the soft magnetic blocks.

Elara’s eyes lit up. “Yes! A tall one that reaches the clouds!”

As the two sat building their ambitious tower, Herta stepped back, watching the gentle scene unfold. Ruan Mei’s laughter danced through the room like wind chimes, and Elara’s voice rang bright with joy. The sight stirred something quiet and tender in Herta’s chest—but there was work to be done.

She moved soundlessly to her nearby terminal. With a wave of her hand, the interface came to life, holographic files flickering into place. She pulled up the station's internal security registry, bypassed the usual request queue, and entered Elara’s name.

Name: Elara
Status: Non-staff Resident
Access Level: Limited — Permitted Zones: Residential, Medical, Cafeteria, Greenhouse, and Common Learning Sector, Recreation, Research Wing A (by escort only)                                                                                                                                                                                                                             override encryption: access to Ruan Mei's lab and quarters—authorized by Herta herself                                                                                         Emergency Contact: Dr. Ruan Mei / Madam Herta
Authorization: Master Key Override — Herta

Her fingers moved quickly. A new ID profile was rendered on the screen, complete with Elara’s photo — taken just moments ago by a discreet ceiling camera as she laughed with Ruan Mei. The picture showed her mid-giggle, moon pin in place, joy radiating from her eyes.

Herta uploaded it to the internal system, then drafted a formal notice to all department heads:

TO: ALL PERSONNEL
FROM: Director Herta

Effective immediately, a new non-staff resident, Elara, has been formally registered on the Herta Space Station.

She is a minor under direct care of Dr. Ruan Mei and myself. All personnel are to treat her with courtesy and provide assistance as needed.

Access to sensitive areas remains restricted unless otherwise accompanied. Her presence has been cleared under special directive.

Disciplinary action will be taken against any individual who obstructs or interferes with her movement in permitted zones.

More information to follow.

— Herta

She hit “Send.” A soft chime confirmed the system-wide alert had been distributed. Departments would receive it within moments — Research, Security, Archives, Engineering. Everyone would know her name by tomorrow.

Next, Herta tapped a command into her assistant drone. It zipped off to begin printing Elara’s ID tag and preparing her personalized room tag for the future—a small silver plate etched with her name and access clearance.

Behind her, Elara and Ruan Mei burst into laughter. Their tower had toppled sideways, but they collapsed in giggles instead of disappointment.

Herta looked back over her shoulder and allowed herself a small smile.

The station was already beginning to change around Elara. Protocols and paperwork could be handled. But that sound — that laughter — that couldn’t be filed or calculated.

And it was the only thing Herta truly cared to preserve.

Laughter floated from the room of Elara as Ruan Mei sat cross-legged on the floor, arranging plush toys into a whimsical tea party. Elara was in the middle of the circle, her eyes sparkling as she directed the imaginary guests.

Herta was at her desk nearby, focused on finalizing some station protocols on her tablet. The glow from the screen reflected faintly on her thoughtful face.

Suddenly, a small shadow darted into the room—Elara, moving like a whirlwind, her curls bouncing with every step.

“Mommy! Mommy!” she called, grabbing Herta’s sleeve and tugging gently but insistently.

Herta looked up, startled, then smiled down at her daughter.

“Come play! Mama and I made a castle, and it’s missing its sorceress!” Elara’s eyes were wide with excitement.

Herta hesitated for just a moment before allowing herself to be pulled from her work.

“All right, all right. I suppose the castle needs me,” she said with a soft chuckle.

Elara grinned triumphantly, grabbing Herta’s hand and leading her toward the cozy chaos of blankets, blocks, and stuffed animals.

Ruan Mei’s laughter mingled with Elara’s as they welcomed Herta into their little world, where castles touched the stars and magic was everywhere.

Chapter Text

The aroma of freshly cooked curry filled the lab’s private lounge, warm and inviting, layered with a subtle sweetness that hinted at starfruit and honeyed broth. Plates were set, drinks poured, and the lighting dimmed to a soft glow. It should have been a peaceful lunch.

It wasn’t.

“No!” Elara’s voice pierced the quiet. “No, no, nooo!”

She stood on the cushion of her chair, fists balled at her sides, cheeks puffed out in outrage. Her dress was wrinkled from earlier play, one sock halfway off, the other entirely missing. Her face was red—not with fever, but the righteous fury of a tiny girl who had been offered food when she wanted candy.

“I don’t want lunch! I don’t want curry! I want the purple gummies from the jar! The ones that sparkle!”

Ruan Mei blinked, halfway through pouring juice into a glass shaped like a star. “Elara, sweetheart, you need real food first—”

“I DON’T WANNA!” Elara shrieked, shaking her head wildly. Her eyes were glossy, overwhelmed, her lower lip wobbling beneath the fury. “You’re being mean! I was good all morning and now you’re punishing me!”

“No one’s punishing you,” Herta said, not looking up from the tea she was stirring with mechanical precision. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not!” Elara wailed, stomping on the cushion. “You said today is special and if it’s special then I get candy for lunch because I said so!”

“You don’t get to make the rules just because you’re upset,” Herta replied calmly, setting the spoon down.

“I’m not upset!” Elara shouted, and then immediately burst into tears.

The tantrum cracked open like a dropped crystal.

Her legs buckled and she sat hard, curling into herself as loud sobs shook her tiny body. “You don’t love me,” she hiccupped. “You only love quiet Elara. You don’t want me when I’m loud.”

Herta’s eyes twitched. Just faintly.

Ruan Mei’s heart broke a little.

She placed the juice down gently, then crossed to Herta’s side—and without a word, wrapped her arm around Herta’s elbow, fingers lightly resting on the back of her hand. It wasn’t a plea. It was grounding. A reminder: Don’t pull away.

Then she knelt beside Elara’s chair.

“Elara,” Ruan Mei said gently, “look at me, honey.”

Elara didn’t lift her head.

“We love you when you’re quiet. We love you when you’re loud. We love you when you cry. Nothing makes us stop loving you.”

Sniffles and a long, rattly breath. Then: “I don’t feel good inside.”

“I know,” Ruan Mei whispered. “You had so much fun this morning, and now your body’s tired and your heart’s too full, and that makes everything feel wobbly.”

Herta stood slowly, her expression unreadable. She crossed the room in measured steps, then lowered herself onto the cushion across from them. She didn’t speak right away.

Elara peeked up from her arms, still crying but quieter now.

“You know what I do when things feel wobbly?” Herta said, tone flat but softer than before. “I eat lunch. Because my brain is useless without glucose. And then I pick one thing to do. Just one. Not everything.”

“That’s a boring idea,” Elara mumbled.

“Correct,” Herta replied, pouring herself tea. “But boring works.”

Elara let out a tiny hiccup-laugh through her tears.

Ruan Mei smoothed her hair gently. “Can we try eating just three bites? And then, if you still want candy, you can pick one. We won’t forget.”

Elara hesitated. “Only three?”

Herta gestured to the curry bowl. “Three minimum. Bonus bites may earn a second candy.”

Ruan Mei glanced sideways at her. “That’s bribery.”

“That’s science,” Herta replied.

Elara giggled—just a little—then wiped her nose on her sleeve with a pitiful sniff. “Okay… but no broccoli.”

“Agreed,” Ruan Mei said warmly, standing and brushing off her skirt. “For today, we’re at war with broccoli.”

Elara slowly picked up her spoon. The first bite was cautious. The second was faster. By the third, she wasn’t crying anymore.

Across the table, Herta sipped her tea, her eyes never straying far from the small girl now swinging her feet again under the table.

When Elara finished her “mission,” Ruan Mei brought over a tiny candy wrapped in silver paper, placed it in Elara’s palm, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“You did hard work today,” she murmured. “You came back to us.”

Elara didn’t answer. She just held the candy like it was sacred.

And when she looked at Herta again, all she said was, “Next time I yell… will you still sit next to me?”

Herta blinked. The words clearly hit something deep.

“Yes,” she said.

Ruan Mei’s hand was still resting over hers.

The living room had been adjusted for peace — lights dimmed to a golden hush, the temperature set just a few degrees warmer, and the screen gently aglow with soft animation. Doc McStuffins played, cheerful and sweet, each scene transitioning with sparkles and music that echoed like sunlight through glass.

Elara lay on her stomach across the soft rug, her feet kicked up and crossed at the ankles, half-watching the screen with drooping eyes. Her face, still faintly pink from her tantrum, now rested against her arms. Her hair, wild from thrashing earlier, fanned messily across her cheeks. She clutched a crinkling bag of apple gummies in one small hand, fingers too tired to pull out the last piece.

At her feet sat Ruan Mei, cross-legged, her hand moving in slow, delicate circles along the small of Elara’s back. She hadn’t stopped since the moment the child settled there—like some wordless lullaby drawn across skin. Every few seconds, she adjusted her rhythm just a little, gauging each shift in Elara’s breathing, each twitch of her shoulders, every sigh that hinted she was drifting closer to sleep.

Herta sat on the nearby couch, tablet in her lap, pretending to read. But her eyes kept glancing up—first to Elara’s slowing form, then to Ruan Mei, and back again. A soft weight pressed behind her ribs, one she couldn’t name, and didn’t try to. The earlier tantrum had left her shaken in some strange, invisible way, and the child’s eventual calmness—though a relief—had only deepened the stillness in her.

“She’s calming,” Ruan Mei whispered, her tone warm and unhurried. “Her muscles aren’t fighting anymore.”

“She didn’t nap today,” Herta murmured in return. “All that sugar and noise from this morning probably overstimulated her nervous system.”

“Mm,” Ruan Mei said thoughtfully, dragging her fingers in a slightly wider pattern, brushing along the tiny vertebrae through Elara’s shirt. “Or maybe... she just needed someone to be soft with her.”

Herta’s eyes flicked toward her again, searching. Ruan Mei didn’t look up. She stayed exactly where she was, back curved like a shield over the little one’s body, as if she could block out every harsh edge the world had ever touched her with.

Herta set her tablet aside and leaned forward slightly, elbows to her knees, her voice gentler this time. “She trusts you,” she said, not quite a question, not quite a confession.

Ruan Mei looked up finally. “She trusts us.”

And then it happened again—that almost-silence, that still, suspended space where the two of them saw each other clearly, with no puppet strings, no data pads, no distractions. Just breath and tension and something soft blooming between them.

“I…” Herta hesitated.

Ruan Mei rose slowly from the floor, kneeling for a moment beside her—still close enough that her shoulder brushed against Herta’s knee. “You don’t have to say it,” she said gently. “Not now.”

“I want to,” Herta said, eyes flicking briefly to the sleeping child before returning to Ruan Mei’s face. “I think I always did. But I didn’t know how to mean it before.”

The corners of Ruan Mei’s mouth lifted. She reached up, her fingertips grazing Herta’s forearm, and then curled softly around the crook of her elbow—right where she had steadied her during Elara’s tantrum.

“I’m here now,” she whispered. “And so are you.”

Behind them, the TV flickered with color and gentle melody. Onscreen, Doc McStuffins and Lambie hugged a nervous toy dragon who had finally found his courage. Elara stirred once, mumbling something incoherent about "band-aids and dragon kisses," then nestled deeper into the carpet, one leg twitching in sleep.

“She’s out,” Ruan Mei said, with a tiny breath of relief.

Herta smiled faintly, watching the steady rise and fall of Elara’s small back. “That’s her second nap in two days. It’s like she finally believes she’s allowed to rest.”

“She is allowed to rest,” Ruan Mei said, squeezing her arm gently. “She’s not just a project, Herta. She’s a little girl.”

“I know,” Herta said softly, eyes not leaving Elara. “But I think I needed you to remind me.”

And for a moment, they just stayed like that. Ruan Mei’s hand still resting on Herta’s arm. Herta’s eyes soft. And the sound of cartoons fading gently into background lullaby, as Elara slept under the weight of love she hadn’t known how to ask for, but had received all the same.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Ruan Mei shifted her hand find Herta’s fingers resting on the arm of the couch. Their hands met and intertwined gently, fingers curling with a sweetness that spoke of long-suppressed yearning.

Their eyes met — dark pools reflecting years of unvoiced feelings. Neither spoke, their breaths synchronizing as the moment stretched between them.

Ruan Mei leaned in first, lips brushing against Herta’s with the gentlest of touches. The kiss deepened slowly, tender and searching, as if exploring a fragile hope. Herta responded with equal softness, her hand rising to cradle Ruan Mei’s cheek, thumbs tracing light paths along her skin.

Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing until only they existed — lips pressed, hearts opening, promises whispered in the silence between.

But then—

A sharp rap on the door shattered the stillness.

They pulled apart quickly, startled, cheeks flushed and breaths uneven.

“Madam Herta?” Asta’s voice came from the hallway, steady and formal.

Herta straightened immediately, smoothing the soft flush from her cheeks. “Coming,” she said, voice calm but carrying a subtle edge of tension.

Carefully, she lifted Elara into her arms, the child stirring just slightly but remaining asleep. One tiny foot peeked out from beneath the blankets, sock slipped down in her sleep.

Ruan Mei offered a small, knowing smile. “I’ll take care of her,” Herta said quietly, stepping toward the hallway.

“Are you sure?” Ruan Mei asked softly.

Herta nodded, turning away with quiet assurance.

As Herta disappeared down the corridor, Ruan Mei adjusted her sleeve, composing herself just as Asta stepped inside, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp and appraising.

“Am I interrupting?” Asta asked, voice casual but with unmistakable curiosity.

Ruan Mei gave a polite smile. “Not at all.”

Asta’s gaze swept the room — the paused cartoon, the soft blankets, the scattered socks. “Elara seems well enough physically, but I haven’t heard anything official. There’s been a lot of speculation—some say she’s an intern, others whisper about an AI experiment.”

“She’s neither,” Ruan Mei replied quietly.

“No,” Asta said, folding her arms, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “She’s something more.”

Ruan Mei’s brow creased. “What exactly do you mean?”

Asta’s gaze flicked to the hallway where Herta had vanished, then back to Ruan Mei. “I see how you two are with her. The way she looks at you. How she calls you both ‘Mama.’ That doesn’t go unnoticed.”

“She’s a child who needs care,” Ruan Mei said, voice low.

“And you two are giving her more than just care,” Asta said, voice softening. “You’re exhausted. You’re connected. And the station’s whispers won’t stop.”

Ruan Mei hesitated, then exhaled. “We’re trying to figure out what comes next.”

Asta nodded, a small smile touching her lips. “You’re not alone in this. But you should prepare—for questions, for answers.”

The door opened again, and Herta returned, calm and composed.

“She’s asleep,” Herta said simply. “Did I miss anything?”

“Just some curiosity,” Asta replied, nodding toward the sock in her hand.

Herta took it, their eyes meeting with a shared understanding.

“I’ll leave you to your… business,” Asta said with a knowing smirk, stepping toward the door. “But be ready. Not everyone will be as patient.”

The door closed quietly behind her.

Ruan Mei exhaled deeply, then reached out, fingers brushing Herta’s hand once more.

“We shouldn’t have waited so long,” she murmured.

“No,” Herta replied softly. “But from now on, we won’t.”

The dim light of the living room wrapped the space in a soft amber glow, painting Ruan Mei and Herta in muted warmth. They settled onto the couch together, shoulders nearly touching, the closeness both familiar and new — a quiet comfort amid the weight of everything they’d just spoken.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence hummed with the echo of their shared breath, the gentle pulse of connection threading between them like an unspoken vow.

Finally, Herta’s voice broke the stillness, low and steady. “I never imagined this... us. Not like this. But it feels right. Scary, yes. But right.”

Ruan Mei nodded, fingers nervously tracing small circles on the back of her hand. “I’ve carried so much alone — the science, the secrets, the fears. But with you, it’s different. I don’t feel like I have to be perfect. I can just… be.”

“That’s what I want for us,” Herta said, eyes locking with hers. “Not just for Elara, but for ourselves. To be honest. To be soft. To be whole.”

Ruan Mei smiled, a flicker of something bright shining through the shadows. “Elara is a miracle, yes. But she’s also a reminder that we need each other — that family isn’t just blood or data. It’s the love we choose to give.”

Herta’s hand found Ruan Mei’s, fingers tightening around hers. “She’s ours. And I want to protect that — protect her, protect us — no matter what the station thinks.”

Ruan Mei sighed, a touch of weariness threading through her smile. “That’s the hard part, isn’t it? The station. The rules. The whispers.”

“We can’t hide forever,” Herta admitted. “Eventually, we have to face it. Face them.”

“But when? How much do we say?” Ruan Mei asked, biting her lip thoughtfully. “We don’t owe anyone the whole story. Not yet.”

“No, we tell them enough to keep her safe,” Herta said firmly. “We present Elara as our ward — a child under our care who deserves kindness and respect. The rest… we protect, for now.”

Ruan Mei nodded slowly. “We control the narrative. We’re the storytellers.”

“And we stick together,” Herta added softly. “No matter what comes.”

A comfortable silence settled again, but now it was lighter — full of promise and trust.

Ruan Mei leaned her head gently against Herta’s shoulder. “I’m scared sometimes,” she confessed. “Of losing you, of losing her, of failing.”

Herta kissed the top of her head. “We won’t fail. Because we have each other. And we have her.”

Ruan Mei closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep in. “I want this — all of it. With you. With Elara. Whatever comes next.”

“Then we face it,” Herta said, voice steady and sure. “Together.”

They stayed like that, arms wrapped around each other, anchored in the quiet strength of shared hope. Outside the window, the station’s lights twinkled like distant stars — a vast, unknowable expanse. But inside, they had found their own universe, one built on trust, love, and the promise of tomorrow.

The lab was warm with quiet motion—screens flickering softly, machinery humming at a low, familiar frequency. Elara sat on the floor near Ruan Mei’s workstation, tracing the glowing outline of a floating hologram with her finger, giggling every time the image shifted.

“She’s fully hydrated,” Ruan Mei noted as she adjusted a biosensor around Elara’s wrist. “No signs of lingering fever. Energy levels normal. Honestly, I think she just wanted an excuse to be held.”

“She’s a genius,” Herta said flatly, folding her arms. “Obviously.”

Elara tilted her head. “I can hear my heartbeat in my hands. Is that supposed to happen?”

“Only sometimes,” Ruan Mei replied with a smile, gently patting her shoulder. “It just means your circulation is waking up a bit more.”

“I like it. It feels like I'm made of little drums.”

Across the room, Herta scanned through the data stream without much interest. “No strange genetic markers, no chemical irregularities—besides her being an uncanny amalgam of brilliance and chaos.”

“She’s not chaos,” Ruan Mei murmured, smoothing Elara’s hair behind her ear. “She’s just new.”

At that moment, the lab doors slid open with a sharp hiss.

Dr. Cavic, tall and severe in Logistics grey, stepped in with a tablet clutched to his chest. His gaze swept across the room—first landing on Herta, then Ruan Mei, then finally locking on the small child sitting contentedly in the middle of the lab.

“…Is that a child?” he asked, blinking twice.

Herta didn’t even look up. “Correct.”

Cavic stepped forward cautiously. “Why is there a child in a Genius Society containment lab?”

“She’s not in containment,” Ruan Mei replied gently. “She’s sitting on a blanket. Playing.”

Cavic’s tone sharpened. “I haven’t seen any reports—no logs, no notices, nothing about a minor arriving on-station.”

“That’s because we’re efficient,” Herta said without missing a beat. She spun her tablet toward him, a glowing ID projection already active. “Elara. Clearance: Level Green. Access approved by Me personally, obviously. She has a station pass, biometric sync, and a housing record.”

“You issued her a personnel ID?” Cavic blinked. “Already?”

“I created this station,” Herta said, turning now with clear disdain. “I’m allowed to bring a child into the system if I see fit. Or several. Would you like a fleet?”

“She's not just anyone,” Ruan Mei added calmly. “We’ve been monitoring her health—she recently recovered from a fever, and we’re running a few final checks to be sure she’s adapting well. But she’s not a security risk. She’s our… responsibility.”

Cavic paused, then stared at Elara again. She had taken to balancing two flat data chips on her nose like they were butterfly wings.

“She’s biologically related to the two of you?” he asked cautiously.

“…In a way,” Ruan Mei said.

“In a way,” Herta echoed, gaze hard. “And that’s all you need to know.”

“I’ll have to submit a notice to Administration.”

“Good,” Herta replied, already turning away. “We’ll submit our version first.”

Cavic hesitated another moment, then nodded once and left.

As the doors sealed behind him, Elara looked up at the two women. “Was I in trouble?”

“No,” Ruan Mei said softly, crouching beside her. “They just don’t know how to react when something wonderful walks into their routine.”

Herta glanced down at Elara, then back at the terminal, fingers still tapping. “They’ll adjust. She’s here now.”

Ruan Mei reached over and took Elara’s hand. “You belong here, Elara.”

Elara grinned. “Can I press the button now?”

Ruan Mei smiled. “Only if you promise not to make it explode.”

Elara beamed as the button clicked under her finger. A soft chime echoed through the lab, and from the far corridor, a familiar set of mechanical footsteps echoed closer.

Around the corner came one of Herta’s puppets, dressed in a ruffled apron and carrying a polished silver tray.

“Delivery for Subject Elara,” it said in a cheery, monotone voice.

On the tray was a small plate of star-shaped crackers and a plastic cup of apple juice with a twisty straw. Elara clapped. “Thank you, Not-Mommy!”

“You’re welcome,” the puppet replied before turning and vanishing down the hall.

Ruan Mei chuckled as Elara plopped down and took a big bite of cracker. “Star food! It tastes like moon!”

She sipped her juice, humming, feet swinging.

Herta raised an eyebrow from across the lab. “You’ll spoil her.”

“She’s already spoiled,” Ruan Mei replied fondly, glancing back at her data console. But then she froze.

“…Wait.”

She leaned in, tapping quickly through Elara’s vitals. Heart rate slightly elevated. Skin temperature just a little warmer. Her cheeks… faintly flushed.

“Elara, sweetheart,” Ruan Mei said gently, kneeling beside her. “How do you feel?”

“Um… happy?” Elara tilted her head. “But my tongue’s a little fuzzy. Is that a science thing?”

Ruan Mei was already scanning the snack remains. Her expression hardened. “Wheat and sesame.”

“Sesame?” Herta echoed, rising quickly. “That wasn’t on the station-approved menu.”

“It was in the crackers. And the juice has sulfites.”

“Why do they put weird things in juice?” Elara asked, now gently scratching her arm. “My tummy feels like it’s buzzing…”

“Okay, no more of that,” Ruan Mei said firmly, scooping the tray away. “Herta, antihistamine—top drawer, blue vial.”

Elara blinked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, no,” Ruan Mei soothed. “You didn’t. Your body just doesn’t like certain foods. It’s called an allergy.”

Herta handed her the vial without a word. “She’s reacting faster than projected. I’ll isolate the allergens and flag the kitchen systems.”

As Ruan Mei administered the small dose, she whispered softly, “We’ll figure it out. We know more now.”

Elara rested her head against Ruan Mei’s chest, suddenly tired. “I don’t like food that fights back…”

Ruan Mei smiled sadly, brushing her fingers through Elara’s hair. “Neither do I.”

By the time the flush had faded and her vitals stabilized, Herta had already rewritten the station’s food distribution protocols. Every supply route, every vending unit, and every puppet under her command would know: No sesame, no sulphites, no peanuts, no wheat.

Elara was curled up in Ruan Mei’s lap again, drowsy and quiet, her head resting against soft fabric while the low hum of medical scanners filled the lab. The allergic reaction had faded, but her cheeks were still a touch too pink, and a slight shiver ran through her now and then, even wrapped in a blanket.

Herta stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her expression unreadable as she watched one of her puppets prepare the allergy test kit. Thirty tiny ampoules lined up in two rows, each filled with a trace protein or chemical compound.

“Is this gonna hurt?” Elara asked sleepily, peeking at the tray.

“Just a little,” Ruan Mei admitted, brushing Elara’s bangs aside and placing a kiss on her forehead. “But it’ll help us know exactly what foods and things your body doesn’t like. That way, we can keep you safe, okay?”

Elara nodded solemnly. “Okay… but no more moon crackers.”

She lay down on her stomach, arms folded under her chin as the puppet carefully disinfected a small area on her back. Herta stepped in then, her voice cool and calm.

“We’ll be using a skin-prick panel—standard Genius Society protocol for unknown biologics. Thirty samples, measured reactions, and we’ll know your immunological profile within the hour.”

Elara whimpered just a little when the first series of injections started—tiny pinches along her back—but she didn’t cry. Not once. Ruan Mei kept whispering gentle encouragements, and Herta kept the data stream flowing in silence, eyes narrowed in concentration.

By the end of the test, fifteen raised welts had appeared—each marked and recorded. The results scrolled across Herta’s console like a red-flagged warning.

Ruan Mei sighed as she skimmed them. “Allergic to: seafood and sea animals, peanuts, tree nuts, sesame, soy, eggs, wheat, sulphites, beef, celery, carrots, pork, corn, vanilla, and mango.”

“Even mango?” Elara mumbled, her cheek squished against Ruan Mei’s thigh. “I never even got to meet a mango.”

Ruan Mei gave a soft laugh, despite the weight in her chest. “There are other fruits, darling. And we’ll make you safe snacks. Herta’s already reprogramming the kitchen.”

“I’ve locked every offending ingredient out of the food synthesis protocols,” Herta said flatly. “And issued override orders to all vending and delivery puppets. Nothing slips through again.”

Elara let out a soft yawn. “So… my tummy is allergic to half the world?”

“Not half,” Ruan Mei said gently. “Just the parts we now know to avoid. You’re still amazing.”

“Even if I can’t eat star food?”

Ruan Mei kissed her temple again. “Especially then.”

Elara smiled faintly at Ruan Mei’s words but didn’t lift her head. Her small body was clearly tired—fatigued by the reaction, the test, and the pokes on her back. Herta silently pressed a few keys, logging the results under Elara’s encrypted medical file. Her violet eyes flicked over every red line, every hypersensitive marker.

“Administering antihistamines now,” Herta said, already preparing a small oral dose in liquid form. “She’ll need a weekly regimen of immune stabilizers and a medical tag added to her ID profile.”

A puppet brought over a tiny purple cup filled with the dose. Ruan Mei sat Elara up gently and offered it with a soft, “Here you go, sweetheart. Drink slowly.”

Elara took it without fuss, wincing only at the slightly bitter aftertaste. “Bleh. Medicine’s yucky.”

“But it’ll help you feel better,” Ruan Mei said, wiping her mouth with a cloth and pulling the blanket around her tighter.

Herta tapped a few final keys, then looked up. “We’ll monitor her vitals continuously for the next twenty-four hours. I’ll keep the data routed to both our terminals.”

“And I’ll update her meal planner personally,” Ruan Mei added, lifting Elara carefully into her arms. “Let’s get you into comfier clothes and somewhere warm.”

“Mhm… wanna sleep,” Elara murmured.

“You can,” Ruan Mei said softly, stroking her hair.

The three left the lab quietly—Ruan Mei holding Elara close, and Herta walking just behind them, already calculating formula adjustments and emergency response routines in her mind. No more mistakes. No more oversights.

The door to their private quarters whispered open with a soft chime. Inside, the lighting had been adjusted to a warm, amber hue—gentle on Elara’s eyes. Ruan Mei gently settled her on the couch while Herta summoned one of her puppets with fresh clothes and a hypoallergenic blanket.

They had already washed the bedding. Disinfected surfaces. Rewritten every system that could deliver food or environmental exposure. Herta had even scanned the ventilation pathways for traces of pollen or dander.

No risk. No randomness. Not here.

Elara stirred faintly. “My back itches…”

Ruan Mei leaned down and inspected the prick test sites. “It’s the histamines reacting, love. We’ll put something cool on it.”

Herta handed her a smooth gel patch already chilled. “Five minutes. No longer. It’ll reduce inflammation.”

Elara’s eyes blinked open a little wider as she looked between them. “You’re… really making sure I’m okay.”

“Of course,” Ruan Mei whispered. “You’re ours.”

Herta didn’t say anything, but she reached over to gently tuck the blanket under Elara’s chin. Her hands, for once, didn’t tremble.

The quiet hum of the air filtration system was the only sound in the softly lit room as Ruan Mei and Herta worked together with a calm precision that belied the tenderness in their eyes.

Elara lay curled beneath a lavender blanket, small welts on her back faintly pink but no longer raised. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket, her gaze drifting between the two women with sleepy curiosity.

Ruan Mei carefully applied the cooling gel to each of the test sites, murmuring softly, “This will help with the itchiness. The histamine reaction can last for hours.”

Elara’s lips quivered slightly. “I don’t like feeling itchy…”

Herta knelt beside her, voice soft but steady. “It’s temporary, little star. Your body is learning what it doesn’t like so it can protect you better.”

Elara blinked up at her. “Protect me… like a shield?”

“Yes,” Herta smiled faintly. “A shield inside you.”

Ruan Mei adjusted the data pad on her wrist. “Her vitals are stable, but I want to monitor her heart rate and oxygen saturation closely for the next 48 hours. Allergic responses can sometimes have delayed effects.”

Herta nodded. “I’ve already integrated her allergy profile into the station’s emergency response system. If anything spikes, the medics will be alerted immediately.”

Elara yawned, her small hand reaching for Ruan Mei’s. “Will you stay with me?”

“Always,” Ruan Mei promised, squeezing gently.

Herta glanced at the two of them, her voice quieter now. “We should talk about how we handle this moving forward. Her environment, her meals, her daily care—it all has to be airtight.”

Ruan Mei’s eyes softened. “It’s a lot, but we’re not doing this alone. We have each other—and Elara.”

Elara’s eyes fluttered closed, but she whispered, “I love you both…”

Herta reached out and brushed a stray curl from Elara’s forehead. “And we love you, little star.”

The three sat together in quiet harmony—watching, protecting, and holding the fragile promise of a future they would build carefully, together.

Elara’s heavy eyelids fluttered closed and opened again, her small hand still loosely holding Ruan Mei’s. The room was wrapped in quiet warmth, the soft glow of the evening light casting gentle shadows on their faces.

Ruan Mei bent closer, her voice a tender whisper carrying the lullaby’s gentle rhythm:

“Sleep, little one,
Close your eyes.
Your body’s golden with the night.”

She stroked Elara’s hair, careful not to disturb her fragile rest.

“Let your worries slip away,
Tomorrow is a brand new day.”

Elara’s breathing slowed, her tiny body relaxing fully into the comfort of Ruan Mei’s arms.

“Shimmering noon
And satin sky,
Soft wind breezes
Lullaby.”

The melody lingered softly, weaving around the quiet hum of the space station.

“Dreams are here to set you free,
The dawn will bring you back to me.”

Ruan Mei’s voice softened to the final words, a promise and a blessing.

Elara’s breathing was steady now, peaceful in the glow of love that held her close.

Herta watched silently from nearby, her gaze warm and full, the unspoken bond between the three of them growing stronger in the lullaby’s embrace.

With Elara finally sound asleep, her soft breaths steady beneath the lavender blanket, Ruan Mei carefully laid her down on the bed. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment — a quiet stillness after the lullaby’s gentle tide.

Ruan Mei glanced toward Herta, who stood near the doorway, eyes thoughtful and slightly guarded. The space between them felt charged, a fragile tension lingering like a whispered question neither dared to voice.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then, Ruan Mei stepped forward, breaking the silence with a soft smile. “I guess… this is the quiet after the storm.”

Herta’s lips twitched, the faintest flicker of warmth breaking through. “Yeah. Feels like we’re still figuring out how to just… be.”

Ruan Mei reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Herta’s ear — a gentle gesture, almost shy. “We’re not perfect at this. But maybe that’s okay.”

Herta’s eyes softened, her defenses lowering as she met Ruan Mei’s gaze. “No, it’s more than okay. It’s real.”

They moved closer, the tension easing into something tender and honest. Fingers intertwined, breaths synchronized.

“In all of this—” Ruan Mei whispered, “—I want us. I want you.”

Herta’s smile grew fuller, a quiet promise in her eyes. “Me too. We’ll figure out the rest, together.”

And for the first time since the chaos of the day, they let themselves simply be — close, unguarded, and full of hope.

Ruan Mei’s fingers traced a gentle line along Herta’s jaw, their eyes locking in a quiet exchange of hope and vulnerability. The tension that had hovered all day finally gave way as Ruan Mei leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Herta’s lips.

The kiss deepened slowly, filled with all the unspoken feelings they’d held back. Herta’s hands rose to cradle Ruan Mei’s face, drawing her closer as warmth spread between them. When they finally pulled apart, foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the dim light.

“I’ve wanted this,” Herta whispered, voice trembling with honesty.

“Me too,” Ruan Mei murmured back.

Hand in hand, they left Elara’s quiet room, stepping softly down the hall toward Herta’s quarters. The space station’s hum faded into the background, leaving just the steady beat of their hearts.

Inside Herta’s room, they slipped beneath the covers, settling close. Ruan Mei wrapped her arms around Herta, pulling her in until every worry melted away.

Fingers intertwined, they found comfort in the warmth of each other’s presence.

Ruan Mei brushed a loose strand of hair from Herta’s forehead and whispered, “We’ll face whatever comes. Together.”

Herta smiled softly, eyes heavy with sleep. “Together.”

And as the night deepened, the two of them drifted off — tangled in arms, dreams, and the quiet certainty of love finally found.

Chapter Text

The artificial daylight filtering through Herta’s room had a sleepy lavender hue, diffused by the half-drawn blinds and the gentle hum of the space station’s climate systems. It was a quiet hour—too early for announcements, too late to be called “night.” A kind of hush settled over the room, one reserved for spaces where love might grow, if given the time.

Ruan Mei blinked herself awake slowly, the dull ache in her lower belly reminding her—right. Her period had started.

She shifted slightly under the covers, trying not to disturb the human-shaped mess of blankets, limbs, and tangled hair beside her.

Or... across her. Because Herta had somehow, sometime during the night, sprawled horizontally across the bed like a sleep-deprived starfish—one leg dangling off the side, the other flopped over Ruan Mei’s thigh. Her cheek was squished into a pillow, and her mouth hung open just slightly, a faint line of drool shining against the fabric.

Ruan Mei bit her lip to stifle a laugh. She carefully reached down to press a palm to her lower belly before curling back under the blanket. Warmth. She needed warmth. And probably caffeine. And definitely a minute before the chaos of the day started.

Still, there was something... nice about this. About waking up in a tangle that didn’t feel cold or distant. Something domestic in the wildest, most unhinged kind of way.

Herta snorted herself awake with a mumble and a twitch, then blinked one eye open. “You’re hogging the middle.”

“You’re sleeping sideways,” Ruan Mei whispered with a smirk.

“Semantics,” Herta mumbled, sitting up groggily. Her hair looked like it had been electrocuted and then brushed with static. She scratched the side of her head, still not fully awake. “...Ugh. How are you functional? You’re bleeding.”

“I’m magical,” Ruan Mei said simply, patting the heating patch under her shirt.

“You’re smug,” Herta corrected.

There was a beat of silence. The air hung just a little too full.

And then—maybe because it was morning and their defenses were low, or maybe because some part of Ruan Mei just wanted—she leaned forward.

Soft. Certain.

Herta kissed her back, eyes fluttering shut. It wasn’t fiery. It wasn’t even long. Just lips meeting lips, without pretense or logic or overthinking. Just the feeling of yes. finally.

When they parted, they were both quiet.

Ruan Mei smiled, slow and genuine. “Still smug?”

“A little,” Herta said, brushing a strand of hair from her own face. “But also hungry. And worried. We should check on Elara.”

“She’s probably still asleep. She had a lot yesterday.” Ruan Mei’s voice softened, then hesitated. “Think she’s okay?”

“She’s with us,” Herta said simply, pulling her long coat on over her rumpled pajamas. “That puts her odds of survival slightly higher.”

They padded through the quiet corridor to Elara’s room, door sliding open with a soft hiss.

Inside, the light auto-adjusted to morning brightness, revealing a landscape of bedroom battlefield.

Blankets were everywhere. Pillows had been exiled to the floor. Stuffed animals were in positions that could only be described as “dramatically deceased.” And in the dead center of it all, Elara lay diagonally across the bed, one arm draped over a plushie, the other bent behind her head like she was sunbathing. Her legs were a story—one tucked neatly, the other stretched so far off the side of the mattress it was a miracle she hadn’t fallen yet.

Ruan Mei peeked over her shoulder. “I see the messy sleeping gene runs strong in this house.”

Herta’s eyes narrowed. “She copied me. That’s clearly my diagonal strategy.”

“Mmhm. I’m sure Elara took detailed notes in her sleep.” Ruan Mei rolled her eyes fondly.

“Statistically speaking, there’s a 90% chance she’s about to roll off in the next three minutes.”

“I’ll catch her,” Ruan Mei said automatically.

“No, you’ll hurt your back. I’ll get a net.”

Ruan Mei stifled a laugh as she gently re-tucked the edge of Elara’s blanket. The girl mumbled in her sleep and snuggled deeper into her pillow, puffing out a sleepy sigh.

“I hate how small she looks when she’s like this,” Ruan Mei said softly, fingertips brushing Elara’s forehead.

“She’s not that small. She just curls up like a bug.” But Herta’s voice had softened too.

Silence again. Then—

“We should go over the allergy list again,” Ruan Mei murmured. “Double-check everything. She can’t have another episode.”

“I already cross-referenced it with the cafeteria inventory,” Herta replied. “And the kitchen staff. And the emergency kits in every room. And I may or may not have installed an auto-alert protocol that blares ‘No shellfish’ over the comms whenever someone inputs her ID code.”

“You’re so overprotective.”

“She’s annoying. I want her to live long enough to finish being annoying.”

Ruan Mei held up her data pad, eyes scanning the chart. “All fifteen allergies confirmed. Seafood of every kind is off the table. That includes shellfish, mollusks, seaweed, krill—”

“She’s basically allergic to the entire ocean.”

“She’s landlocked for life.”

“She’s gonna be furious when she finds out sushi exists and it’s banned.”

A small snort escaped them both.

As they left the room to let her sleep a bit longer, Herta pulled out her communicator and muttered into it. “Yes, cafeteria? This is Herta. I need a full breakfast for three. No seafood. No seaweed. No cross-contamination. No... weirdness. And if I find one shrimp tail in the rice, I will dismantle your entire kitchen and replace your staff with cleaning drones. Yes, I’m serious. Thank you.”

Ruan Mei watched, deadpan. “Was that necessary?”

“I’m not risking the gremlin’s life on someone else’s laziness.”

“She’s not a gremlin.”

“She sleeps sideways and hoards plushies. She’s a gremlin.”

...And back in her room, Elara rolled over dramatically in her sleep—flopped face-first into her pillow, mumbling nonsense.

Just as her leg slipped an inch further off the bed.

Thump.

“...Ow.”

“She’s awake,” Herta and Ruan Mei said in perfect unison.

Ruan Mei had already moved ahead, one hand resting lightly on her lower belly, the other fidgeting with her blouse like she was trying to hide how stiff she felt.

Herta squinted. “You didn’t take anything, did you?”

Ruan Mei blinked innocently. “Take what?”

“Painkillers. A heat patch. Magic. I dunno—whatever soft, elegant witches use when they’re in pain.”

“I’m not that delicate,” Ruan Mei said, trying to smile. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Herta crossed her arms, deadpan. “You keep wincing when you think I’m not looking. That’s either menstrual cramps or you’ve been body-snatched by a low-functioning mimic. Blink twice if you need to be exorcised.”

Ruan Mei chuckled softly—tired, but real. “I’ll live.”

“Not the same as ‘I’m fine,’” Herta muttered. She bit her lip, then quietly asked, “...Want me to get you something? I have science-grade tea. Smells like swamp, but helps.”

Ruan Mei tilted her head, touched. “You’re fussing.”

“I’m not,” Herta snapped. “Just saying, if you collapse I’m not carrying you. You’re tall, dense, and I bruise like paper.”

Ruan Mei reached out, brushing her fingers over Herta’s sleeve. “Thanks.”

Herta grumbled something incoherent and spun on her heel—ears pink.

By the time they reached Elara’s room, the blanket-mess tornado had officially lost the battle with gravity.

She was face-down, arms flung wide like a soap-opera extra mid-meltdown. Her hair was a wild halo of curls and static. Somehow, a plushie was on top of her back. One leg still dangled off the bed, though now it looked less like an accident and more like a lifestyle choice.

“She fell,” Herta whispered, stepping carefully.

“She landed on her butt,” Ruan Mei said, dodging a stray pillow. “She’s toddler-rubber. She’ll bounce.”

“I should get carpet in here,” Herta muttered. “Memory foam. Or bubble wrap.”

Ruan Mei smiled and settled at the bed’s edge, tucking the blanket gently around Elara. Herta sat down beside her, both watching the girl in quiet.

Elara groaned, rolling halfway onto her side, nose wrinkling. “...Mmmph. Lemme alone,” she mumbled into her plushie. “S’not time yet…”

“We didn’t say anything,” Herta said, blinking.

“She’s psychic in the mornings,” Ruan Mei whispered.

Elara cracked one eye open. “You were talkin’ too loud.”

Ruan Mei raised an eyebrow. “We were whispering.”

“Mouth whispering’s still noise,” Elara mumbled, eyes closing again.

They both smiled.

“She looks better today,” Ruan Mei murmured, brushing a stray curl from Elara’s face. “Breathing’s steady. No redness.”

“She should look better. I personally threatened the cafeteria with robot extermination.”

“Did you now?”

“There was mild whimpering on the line. Success.”

Elara made a sleepy “blehhh” noise and rolled again—this time curling into Ruan Mei’s side and slapping a hand lazily onto Herta’s knee.

“D’not move. You’re soft.”

“I’m not a pillow,” Herta deadpanned.

“You’re the pink one,” Elara whispered like it was a secret, eyes shut.

Herta blinked, helpless, glancing at Ruan Mei.

“She’s dreaming,” Ruan Mei said, smiling, rubbing gentle circles on Elara’s back.

They stayed tangled in blankets and quiet, Ruan Mei’s fingers tracing lazy patterns, Herta’s hand resting shyly near Elara’s ankle.

Eventually, Herta broke the silence. “She’s gonna be mad when she finds out seaweed’s banned.”

“She’ll live.”

“She’s gonna ask if that includes seaweed gummies.”

Ruan Mei sighed. “...Probably.”

“And the worst part? I actually like those.”

Ruan Mei glanced at her. “I thought you hated anything not flavorless nutrition paste cubes.”

“I contain multitudes,” Herta muttered.

Another long silence.

Elara’s breathing slowed, steady. The warm smell of breakfast—toast, rice, sweet soy sauce—wafted in.

“She’s gonna wake hungry,” Ruan Mei said.

“She’ll demand something ridiculous. Pancake soup, maybe.”

They shared a smile.

And neither moved.

The soft scent of warm food drifted in through the cracked door, a quiet promise of morning comfort. But beneath that promise lurked a silent tension that only Herta seemed to notice.

Herta tapped her communicator again, voice low but resolute. “Cafeteria kitchen, please listen carefully. No eggs, no peanuts, no tree nuts—almond, cashew, pistachio—no sesame, no wheat, no soy, no fish, no shellfish, no animal dander—oh wait, never mind that last one, can’t cook with fur, obviously—no sulphites, no pollen, and absolutely no vanilla.”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “Yes, all of that. Triple-checked. And no cross-contamination. If a single grain of wheat sneaks in, I will personally recalibrate every cooking bot on this station and reorganize the kitchen supply chain. Do I make myself clear?”

Ruan Mei, lounging nearby with a slight smirk, shook her head. “Herta, you sound like you’re casting a curse, not ordering breakfast.”

Herta shot her a glare that could freeze plasma. “I’m not a witch. I’m just… highly invested.”

Elara peeked out from beneath her tangled blankets, eyes blinking slowly but curious. “So… what can I eat?”

Herta’s expression softened as she crouched near the bed. “Rice porridge, steamed veggies, fresh fruit. Safe, simple, and zero chance of triggering a reaction.”

Elara scrunched her nose thoughtfully. “No eggs? But pancakes have eggs.”

Ruan Mei chuckled, reaching to tuck a loose curl behind Elara’s ear. “Yeah, no pancakes yet. We’re working on that. For now, think of it like building a safe food fortress. One that’s just for you.”

Elara grinned, settling back into her pillow. “Safe food fortress sounds cool. I want a moat.”

“Moat made of rice grains,” Herta deadpanned, though her eyes twinkled.

Ruan Mei laughed softly. “And maybe a dragon who only eats veggies.”

Herta pulled out her communicator again. “Alright, kitchen, three breakfasts—completely allergen-free and cross-contamination-proof. I want everything logged and double-checked. If any bot slips up, I will—”

“—Send you an angry report,” Ruan Mei finished with a smile.

Herta grinned. “Exactly.”

The distant sounds of the kitchen crackled over the comm—a flurry of whispered panic, hurried steps, and the unmistakable beeping of cooking bots scrambling to keep up.

“They’re terrified of me,” Herta admitted, voice low but amused. “Especially after I threatened to replace half their staff with cleaning drones.”

Ruan Mei nodded knowingly. “I bet they’ve never had a customer with a list like Elara’s.”

Elara’s eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and awe. “So I’m special?”

“Very special,” Ruan Mei said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

Herta crouched beside the bed, fingers brushing over Elara’s messy curls. “And worth all the fuss.”

Elara yawned, nestling closer. “Safe is good. I don’t want scary food.”

“We’ve got you,” Ruan Mei promised.

“Always,” Herta added.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the distant hum of the station and the quiet bubbling of the kitchen filling the room.

Minutes later, a soft chime echoed in the hallway—the breakfast delivery.

Herta jumped up, eyes sharp. “That’s our cue. Let’s hope the rice fortress holds.”

Ruan Mei chuckled, gathering the blankets around Elara. “No pancake soup this time, I promise.”

Elara giggled, sleepy and content. “Thank you. For the moat.”

Herta opened the door, and the carefully prepared trays of allergen-free breakfast arrived, steam rising gently from the simple, safe meals designed with love, care, and a very long list of allergies in mind.

Herta scooped Elara into her arms, Herta cradled Elara carefully in her arms, holding her close like a precious, wiggly bundle. Elara’s eyelids fluttered open, but as the morning light spilled in, she suddenly frowned.

Ruan Mei leaned down slightly, her voice soft but firm. “Elara, you will have a bath after breakfast. It’s important, sweetie. You don’t want to get a fever again.”

Elara scrunched up her nose, small fists clutching at Herta’s coat. “No! No bath! I don’t wanna!”

Herta shifted Elara gently, keeping her steady. “Baths help you feel better, little one.”

Elara pouted fiercely, crossing her arms. “I’m not dirty! I’m clean! No baths!”

Ruan Mei smiled softly, standing close. “You will have a bath. It’s part of taking care of yourself.”

Elara’s bottom lip trembled, then she stomped a tiny foot against Herta’s side. “I want porridge! No baths! Porridge’s yummy! Baths are icky!”

Herta smiled, brushing a stray curl away from Elara’s face. “You can have your porridge first. Then bath time.”

Elara’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “But my plushie can’t swim! It’ll get all soggy and sad!”

Ruan Mei chuckled softly. “I’ll keep your plushie safe. Promise.”

Elara huffed, wriggling just a little in Herta’s arms. “I’m not going! I’m a big kid! Big kids don’t take baths!”

Herta laughed quietly. “Big kids do take baths. Even dragons.”

Elara’s eyes lit up with mischief. “I’m a dragon! Dragons don’t take baths!”

“Dragons take baths to keep their scales shiny,” Ruan Mei teased with a wink.

Elara blinked, Than muttered, “I’m never a dragon again.”

Chapter Text

The dining nook was small, softly lit, and filled with the comforting aroma of warm rice and steamed vegetables. A tray sat neatly on the table, its compartments carefully organized: porridge with sliced apples, steamed lotus root, and a side of golden, pan-fried tofu—all certified Elara-safe.

Elara sat at the table bundled in a thick blanket like a burrito with limbs, only her face and fingers peeking out. Her cheeks were flushed from sleep, hair an absolute chaos nest of curls, and her spoon clinked gently in the bowl as she shoveled porridge into her mouth with the determined precision of a sleepy gremlin refueling.

“Slow down,” Ruan Mei murmured, settling beside her with a mug of fragrant tea cupped gently in both hands. Her blouse was rumpled, and the heating patch under her clothes barely took the edge off the cramps, but she still managed a soft smile. “You’ll get porridge on your plushie army.”

“No I won’t,” Elara mumbled between bites. “They’re watchin’. Not eatin’.”

Herta, seated on the other side of the table and sipping something that looked suspiciously like nutrient sludge, raised an eyebrow. “They’re also judging you. That one’s been glaring at your posture since we sat down.”

Elara blinked at her bunny plush across the table and gasped. “Luna! Stop being mean!”

Ruan Mei hid a smile behind her teacup. “Well, now I know who’s the disciplinary officer in the fortress.”

“Luna keeps the moat safe,” Elara said solemnly, pointing her spoon like a commander at a map. “This is the porridge wall. That’s the apple orchard. And tofu is where the squishy traps go.”

“She’s building a tactical breakfast base,” Herta muttered. “I respect it.”

“You better,” Elara huffed. “You’re on door duty.”

“Excuse me?”

“You guard the food gate. If any allergens show up, you zap 'em.”

Ruan Mei laughed softly. “You gave her a job.”

“I gave you one too,” Elara added seriously, pointing to her. “You’re the magic bubble-maker. For after breakfast.”

Ruan Mei blinked. “Magic... bubbles?”

Herta leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes narrowing. “This sounds suspiciously like bath propaganda.”

Elara froze mid-chew.

Then she squinted.

Ruan Mei cleared her throat gently. “No one said anything about baths.”

“Good,” Elara muttered, stuffing a too-large spoonful into her mouth again.

Herta gave Ruan Mei a slow look over the top of her drink. “We’re not gonna make it out of this without collateral damage.”

“She’s tiny,” Ruan Mei whispered. “How does she have this much resistance?”

“Willpower of a dragon. Appetite of a blender. Legs of a table gremlin.”

“I can hear you,” Elara mumbled, cheeks puffed.

“You’re too full of porridge to fight us,” Herta said smugly, reaching over to pluck a stray grain of rice from Elara’s cheek.

“I’m not full,” Elara declared proudly. “I’m... recharging. Like a robot!”

“Great,” Herta muttered. “She’s got lore now.”

Ruan Mei laughed, her tea cooling between her fingers as she glanced between them. There was something soothing in the way this morning had taken shape—soft banter, safe food, and a girl who was finally recovering.

But the bath still loomed like a final boss.

Ruan Mei rubbed a slow circle on her temple, whispering, “We’re going to need a miracle.”

“Or a decoy,” Herta murmured, tapping her communicator. “I wonder if any of the puppets are waterproof.”

Elara narrowed her eyes. “I’m watchin’ you two.”

Ruan Mei smiled sweetly. “Eat your apples, sweetheart.”

And so the breakfast fortress held—for now.

As the last bite of porridge disappeared with a victorious slurp. Elara leaned back in her chair, patting her blanket-wrapped belly with a dramatic sigh. “That was sooo good. I’m done now. I can go play. Goodbye.”

She started to wiggle off the chair like a noodle, but Herta’s hand appeared, anchoring her in place with uncanny timing.

“Oh no you don’t,” Herta said mildly. “You're forgetting a Very Important Mission.”

Elara blinked up at her suspiciously. “...Is it nap time?”

“No.”

“Snack time?”

“You just ate.”

Ruan Mei leaned in, voice sing-song gentle. “It’s bath time, darling.”

There was a silence.

A long, heavy silence.

Then—

“NOOOOOOO!”

Elara launched backwards out of the chair with the dramatic flair of a stage actress mid-tragedy, landing on the floor with a soft “fwump” and immediately turtle-rolling under the table.

“You betrayed me!!” she wailed.

Herta blinked. “You gave us jobs. We’re just fulfilling our roles.”

“I didn’t say bath bubbles! I said magic bubbles! There’s a difference!”

From under the table, Elara’s muffled voice declared, “I’m allergic to baths now. Super allergic. They make me itchy and mad!”

Ruan Mei knelt nearby, calm as a moonrise. “Sweetheart, we tested you. Bathwater wasn’t on the list.”

“I lied! I’m developing new allergies all the time!”

“You are not inventing syndromes to avoid hygiene,” Herta called from above, arms crossed.

A plushie suddenly flew out from under the table and smacked Herta in the shin. Elara’s voice followed: “Plushy army declares war!”

“Ow. Okay, that one had beans in it.” Herta stepped back, rubbing her leg. “That was a beanbag war crime.”

Ruan Mei coughed lightly into her hand. “How about a compromise, little dragon? What if the bath has treasure in it? Like shiny bubbles and a crown?”

“Nope!”

“A bubble wand?”

“No!”

“A duck that sings?”

There was a pause.

“…Does the duck sing about not taking baths?”

“No, it sings about sparkle soap and friendship.”

Elara made a face. “Lame.”

From under the table came the distinct sound of tiny hands rummaging around and possibly planning an escape route.

“Ruan Mei,” Herta said under her breath, “we are seconds away from a tactical toddler dash.”

“Agreed. I’m calling Plan Soft Siege.”

“What’s Plan Soft Siege?”

Ruan Mei smiled as she stood. “We send in the plushie diplomat.”

She picked up the plush bunny, held it carefully, and crouched beside the table. “Luna says... if you don’t take a bath, she’ll cry. And she might get moldy.”

A horrified gasp echoed from beneath.

“No! Not Luna mold! That’s—horrible!”

“She also says she hasn’t had a proper spa day in weeks,” Ruan Mei added gently.

Another beat.

Then, with slow dramatic flair, Elara peeked out from under the table, bottom lip quivering. “Luna wants a bath?”

“She does.”

“…Is it gonna be... warm?”

“Exactly the right temperature,” Herta promised. “Scientifically verified.”

“…And I get to wear my towel cape after?”

“Of course.”

Elara shuffled forward on her knees like a wounded war hero. “Fine. But I want dragon stickers. A lot.”

“How many is a lot?” Ruan Mei asked.

“A HUNDRED.”

“You’ll get three.”

“Five.”

“Done.”

Ruan Mei extended a hand.

Elara sniffled and slapped her tiny hand into Ruan Mei’s palm with the force of a peace treaty being signed in glitter ink.

“Okay,” she whispered. “But if the soap gets in my eyes, I’m turning back into a dragon. A mean one.”

Herta gave a solemn nod. “Understood. Dragon Protocol will remain on standby.”

Elara stood tall (for a four-year-old in a blanket cape), shoulders squared, plushie under her arm.

“Let’s do this.”

The bathroom had been transformed into what could only be described as “spa-meets-toddler-wizard-duel.” The lights were dimmed to a soft, non-threatening glow, and the tub was filled with warm water that sparkled faintly—courtesy of a handful of glittery, allergy-safe bath beads that Herta had summoned from some top-secret, definitely-overengineered lab stash.

Floating in the tub was a tiny duck wearing sunglasses.

Its name was now officially "Commander Quack."

Elara stood at the threshold in her towel cape, arms crossed, plushie clutched tightly under one arm. She eyed the water like it was a trap.

“Why’s it shimmery?”

“It’s enchanted,” Ruan Mei said gently, kneeling to her level. “For brave dragons who guard food forts.”

Elara squinted. “Enchanted by who?”

Herta, already rolling up her sleeves, deadpanned, “Certified bubble witches.”

Ruan Mei shot her a look.

“What?” Herta added. “I can lie too.”

Elara sniffed the air suspiciously. “Does it smell like… strawberries?”

“Roses,” Ruan Mei corrected.

“Ugh. Too many petals.”

“You’ll survive,” Herta said, scooping her up in one swift motion.

“Nooo!” Elara flailed like a cat about to be dunked. “You promised negotiation!”

“We did negotiate,” Herta grunted, holding her at arm’s length as she kicked wildly. “You signed the sticker treaty!”

“I didn’t mean it!! I revoke my royal decree!!”

Ruan Mei sighed, standing by with a soft towel and a determined expression. “If you revoke it, Luna gets moldy.”

Elara paused mid-flail. “Luna’s watching?”

“She’s taking notes.”

A squeaky duck floated past, bumping the edge of the tub like it was trying to defuse the tension.

Herta leaned toward the tub slowly, arms wrapped tightly around a now-growling Elara. “Okay, countdown. Three… two—”

“I WANT A BUBBLE FORCEFIELD!”

“Done!” Ruan Mei declared, hastily pouring in a scoop of gentle, allergen-free foamy soap. The bubbles fizzed and spread like a tiny sparkly tsunami.

Elara hesitated.

Her eyes tracked the rising bubbles. One stuck to the duck’s head.

“…Is it gonna eat me?”

“No,” Herta said. “But it might sing.”

“NO—”

Too late.

Elara was deposited into the tub with a soft splash and a squeak from Commander Quack.

The water wasn’t too hot, the bubbles were soft, and Luna the plushie was safely stationed on a nearby dry towel. And yet—

Elara sat there in the center of the tub like a drenched cat, dripping indignation.

“I’m still mad,” she muttered, arms crossed under the water.

“We know,” Ruan Mei said, gently washing her hair with rhythmic, comforting strokes. “That’s okay.”

“I’m mad at the bubbles.”

“They can handle it.”

“I’m mad at the duck.”

“He’s seen worse.”

“I’m mad at mommy.”

Herta, perched on a stool nearby with a sponge in hand, didn’t even flinch. “I accept my role as your bath nemesis.”

“Good,” Elara huffed. “You’re the Bubble Witch now.”

Ruan Mei chuckled, catching Herta’s look of mock horror. “Promotion achieved.”

They washed her gently, chatting softly, letting her play with the floating toys as the bubbles grew higher. The earlier tension faded—bit by bit—as Elara became more curious than cranky.

“What’s this?” she asked, holding up a plastic cup.

“That’s for rinsing,” Ruan Mei said.

Elara narrowed her eyes.

“Or... for bubble potions,” Herta offered quickly. “Depends on the mission.”

That seemed to satisfy her.

By the end of the bath, Elara had created an entire soap kingdom. Commander Quack was appointed royal advisor. A second cup became a magic cauldron. She forgot she was supposed to be mad.

When Ruan Mei lifted her gently out of the water, wrapped her in a fluffy towel, and declared her “clean enough to hug,” Elara didn’t even resist.

Well—almost didn’t.

“My toes are cold,” she muttered, snuggling deeper into the towel.

“We’ll warm them,” Herta promised, already patting down her curls. “Come on. Nap time.”

“No,” Elara mumbled sleepily. “Book first.”

“Book, then nap,” Ruan Mei agreed. “You’ve earned it, little dragon.”

“Dragon with clean armpits,” Herta whispered under her breath.

“I heard that!”

And with that, they carried her out like a triumphant, sleepy warrior—clean, safe, and wrapped in the soft scent of victory and rose-scented rebellion.

The room was dim again, curtains drawn against the bright station glow. A soft breeze from the vent made the fresh sheets ripple just slightly—clean, lavender-scented, and warm.

Elara was bundled burrito-style in a fluffy pink towel, now swapped for cozy pajamas: pale blue, decorated with cartoon planets and tiny dragons. Her damp curls fluffed around her face like she’d been electrocuted by bedtime.

She flopped face-first into the bed and groaned dramatically. “I’m never forgiving the duck.”

“Commander Quack served valiantly,” Ruan Mei said, smoothing Elara’s hair with tender fingers.

“He betrayed me.”

“You appointed him royal advisor.”

“That was before he squeaked at me!”

Herta smirked, sitting at the foot of the bed and pretending to inspect her communicator. “Not all royal advisors are loyal. That’s lesson number one in court politics.”

“I hate politics,” Elara mumbled into her pillow. “They’re full of soap and lies.”

“Big mood,” Herta muttered.

Ruan Mei chuckled and pulled a book from the nightstand—a slim volume with soft illustrations, its title glittering in holographic print: The Star and the Snail.

“Okay,” she said gently. “One story. Then nap.”

Elara poked her head out of the blanket cocoon, eyes already fluttering. “Two stories.”

“One and a half.”

Elara considered this. “Only if you do the voices.”

“Deal.”

Ruan Mei opened the book, her voice warm and lilting as the first lines spilled out:

Once, there was a star who fell in love with a snail—
Not because the snail was fast, or shiny, or loud...
But because the snail always waited for the stars to come back.

Elara’s eyes began to drift shut halfway through the first page.

Ruan Mei kept reading, gentle and rhythmic, pausing only when Elara’s breathing hitched and a soft snore escaped.

But Elara stirred again, mumbled something barely audible. “You forgot the snail’s silly voice...”

“I was getting to it,” Ruan Mei whispered, and added the goofiest voice imaginable: nasal and squeaky, with a wobble like jelly. “‘I’ve got time,’ said the snail. ‘Lots and lots of time.’”

Even half-asleep, Elara giggled.

Herta, quiet all this time, leaned back on her palms at the edge of the bed, one ankle crossed over the other, watching the scene with an unreadable expression.

Eventually, as the final page turned and Ruan Mei closed the book, Elara gave one last sleepy sigh and murmured, “Still hate baths.”

“I know,” Ruan Mei whispered, kissing the crown of her curls. “You were very brave.”

Elara didn’t reply. Her breathing evened out, slow and steady.

Herta gently tucked the blanket higher around her shoulders. “She’s out.”

“She needed that,” Ruan Mei said softly, fingers trailing lazily across the cover of the book.

“So did we.”

They stayed like that a moment longer—quiet, still, hearts breathing in sync with the little girl curled between them.

“...Do you think she’ll ever like baths?” Ruan Mei whispered eventually.

“No,” Herta said instantly. “But she might learn to negotiate like a pro.”

“She already does,” Ruan Mei replied, eyes twinkling. “She got five stickers out of me.”

Herta snorted. “Beginner’s level. Wait till she wants a pony.”

Ruan Mei smiled faintly. “She’ll probably ask for a spaceship first.”

“And she’ll probably get it,” Herta muttered. “...We’re doomed.”

They lingered a little while longer after the story ended, neither eager to break the hush that had settled around them.

Ruan Mei gently set The Star and the Snail back on the nightstand, its holographic cover still faintly glowing like a constellation remembered in a dream.

Elara didn’t stir—not even when Herta tucked a plush dragon under her arm like a loyal knight in felt armor, or when Ruan Mei leaned close to press one last kiss to her cheek.

“She’s really asleep this time,” Ruan Mei whispered, leaning back with a sigh and rubbing her temple. Her braid had come loose, strands clinging softly to her face.

Herta nodded but didn’t move. She was still watching Elara—eyes not unreadable now, but thoughtful. A long exhale left her lips.

“I used to think bedtime was a waste of time,” she said quietly. “Sleep, dreams, stories. Things that distracted you from work.”

“And now?” Ruan Mei asked, stretching her arms behind her back, bones cracking in soft protest.

Herta tilted her head, gaze still fixed on Elara. “Now I think I get why people miss it. The little rituals. The softness.”

“You always did like formulas,” Ruan Mei teased, voice barely a breath. “This one’s just... warm instead of exact.”

They both sat like that for a moment, knees nearly touching, the room filled only with Elara’s steady breathing and the hum of the station’s systems overhead.

Then, without a word, Herta shifted closer—just enough to lean against Ruan Mei’s shoulder.

It startled her, slightly. Not in fear, but in recognition of how rare the moment was. Herta didn’t often seek comfort like this. She wasn’t wired for it the way Ruan Mei was.

But here she was—shoulder against hers, warm and still and pretending she didn’t care how long they stayed like this.

“She’ll be up in an hour,” Ruan Mei murmured, smiling softly.

“I know.”

“She’ll ask for snacks.”

“She always does.”

“And probably demand a sticker for being ‘good at sleeping.’”

“She is unnaturally good at that,” Herta said, eyes narrowing. “I suspect sorcery.”

Ruan Mei stifled a laugh, resting her head lightly on top of Herta’s for just a moment.

And there they stayed, the two of them seated beside the sleeping girl, each still half-damp from the earlier bath chaos, wrapped in the strange warmth of silence and stars.

Maybe this was the real science of it all, Ruan Mei thought.

Not formulas or magic or technology.

Just this:
The warmth of something small and gentle and shared.
Inches from a star.

The hallway outside Elara’s room was quiet—eerily so.

Ruan Mei glanced sideways at Herta as she reached for the door handle. “She’s usually mumbling about cookies by now.”

“Or kicking the wall in protest,” Herta added under her breath.

They opened the door.

And stopped.

The room glowed.

Not from a light. Not from the station’s soft artificial sun, which had dimmed to its nap-time setting. No. This was something else.

Elara floated above her bed.

Suspended in the air like a leaf caught mid-fall, her body limp and relaxed, curls fanned around her like a lion’s halo. Around her, the air shimmered with lilac light—soft, slow, pulsing like a heartbeat from a forgotten galaxy. Her stuffed animals floated too, orbiting lazily: Commander Quack doing a somersault midair, Galaxy Bunny twirling by a single floppy ear.

Ruan Mei didn’t breathe.

Herta did—but only to whisper, “What in the spiral...?”

No reply. Just the quiet hum of the room and the barely-there sound of Elara’s sleeping breaths.

The light wasn’t random. It pulsed in deliberate rhythm—two beats, a pause, then one long exhale. Familiar. Unnervingly so.

Ruan Mei took a slow step forward, fingers curling slightly at her side as if her muscles remembered something she didn’t. Deep in her memory, an old file flickered—scanned pages, corrupted data, a name scrawled in faded ink:
N.O.V.A.

She blinked.

The glow flickered... and began to fade. Elara drifted gently downward, as if the bed itself had reached up to catch her. The plushies followed, plopping one by one into their usual sleepy heap. By the time her back met the mattress, all was still.

A whisper-soft sigh escaped Elara’s lips. “Mmm… pancakes…”

“She’s dreaming,” Herta muttered. “Floating. Glowing. Dreaming of carbs. That’s… new.”

Ruan Mei didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes lingered on the now-empty space above the bed, the faintest static still hanging in the air like dust after lightning.

Was it possible?

Had she…?

No. Not here. Not now. She folded the thought neatly and placed it back where it belonged: among half-formed theories and dreams she once dared not speak aloud.

“Maybe…” she said slowly, “your witchy genetics are starting to manifest.”

Herta snorted. “Please. My witchcraft doesn't include levitating plushies.”

“It could be latent,” Ruan Mei offered, her voice almost playful—but her eyes were far away.

Elara mumbled something incomprehensible, then turned and hugged Commander Quack with the desperation of a child protecting national secrets. Her breathing evened out.

“She’s still asleep,” Herta whispered.

“For now,” Ruan Mei murmured.

They stood in silence a moment longer. Just long enough to wonder what else Elara might do. What else she might be.

And if the pulse they saw tonight… was just the beginning.

“Elara,” Ruan Mei said softly, stepping closer.

The girl didn’t stir.

Herta frowned. “Elara, we saw you levitating like a smug little moon goddess, no pretending to be asleep now.”

Still nothing.

Ruan Mei leaned in, brushing a curl from Elara’s forehead. “Pancake princess, time to rise. You’ve got a kingdom of crayons waiting.”

Elara groaned and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow. “Nuh-uh. Still in space.”

“You were very much floating in space,” Herta muttered. “But now you’re back on solid bed.”

At last, Elara cracked one eye open, blinking at them blearily. “Are the plushies okay?”

Ruan Mei smiled. “Safe landing. Commander Quack did a triple axel. Very impressive.”

“I dreamed…” Elara paused, staring at the ceiling. “I dreamed I was big. Like, really big. Like ‘step over a planet’ big.”

Herta raised an eyebrow.

Ruan Mei’s heart skipped once. “Did you?”

Elara nodded solemnly. “I had stars in my hair and I hugged the moon and it turned into a cookie.”

“…A moon cookie,” Herta deadpanned. “You’re going to inspire entire conspiracy theories.”

“Do I still have magic?” Elara asked, eyes now wide and hopeful.

Ruan Mei crouched beside the bed and gently took her hand. “We’re not sure what that was, sweetheart. But whatever it is, it’s yours. And we’ll help you understand it.”

“Does it mean I don’t have to do lessons?”

“Nope,” Herta said, holding up a clipboard that may or may not have appeared from thin air. “Today’s agenda: beginner reading, crayon calligraphy, and maybe—if you behave—learning your full name.”

“I already know my full name,” Elara said smugly. “It’s Elara ‘Stuffed-Animal-Queen’ Something.”

Ruan Mei laughed softly. “Close enough. But let’s see how well you can write it.”

“I can write,” Elara declared, throwing the blanket off with royal flair. “I wrote a whole note once.”

“Yes,” Herta said dryly. “We still have it. It says ‘No more baths ever again, or I scream.’”

“And did I scream?”

“You screamed before the note,” Ruan Mei reminded her, lifting her off the bed.

Elara gasped dramatically. “That was emotional groundwork!”

They moved to the table—Ruan Mei guiding gently, Herta already conjuring a pen that glowed softly at the tip. A fresh pad of paper sat waiting, cream-colored and covered in faint star patterns.

“Today,” Ruan Mei said as Elara climbed onto the chair, “you’ll learn to write your name beautifully. Like the stars did it themselves.”

Elara squinted at her suspiciously. “Is this because I floated?”

“Nooo,” Herta said slowly, dragging the word out like a cartoon villain.

“…Okay maybe,” Ruan Mei added with a wink.

And as Elara gripped the pen with a determined little fist, she didn’t notice the tiniest flicker of lilac glow dance along her fingertips—just for a second.

Ruan Mei noticed.

She didn’t say anything.

But her eyes tracked every movement. And inside, a quiet theory spun itself deeper.

N.O.V.A. wasn’t just a name anymore.

It was a possibility.

Chapter Text

The pen squeaked faintly as Elara pressed it too hard against the page.

“Elara,” Ruan Mei said gently, “you don’t have to fight the paper. It’s not your enemy.”

“I’m not fighting,” Elara mumbled, tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of her mouth. “I’m winning.”

Across the table, Herta glanced at the scribbled chaos of half-letters and backwards Es. “Looks like the paper’s losing.”

“It’s an epic battle,” Elara declared. “Between me and... alphabet spaghetti.”

Herta raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even writing words anymore.”

“Yes, I am,” Elara insisted. “That says ‘Elara Nova Queen the First of Dragons.’”

“That’s not how spelling works.”

“Yet.”

Ruan Mei chuckled softly, adjusting the plush cushion behind Elara’s back. “You’re doing wonderfully, sweetheart. But maybe we just focus on E-L-A-R-A for now.”

Elara let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But I’m adding sparkles.”

“No sparkles on the space station’s historical record,” Herta muttered. “It messes with the scanners.”

“Herta, she’s four,” Ruan Mei said, laughing under her breath.

“She’s four and a half,” Elara corrected proudly, stabbing a little star next to the letter A. “My half counts.”

“Yes it does,” Ruan Mei said gently. But her smile faltered just slightly as Elara looked away.

For a moment, something flickered across Elara’s fingertips again—barely-there lilac light, vanishing the second Ruan Mei blinked.

She didn’t comment. Not yet.

Instead, she reached over and gently tapped the edge of the paper. “One more time. Then we’ll take a break, alright?”

Elara nodded, head bobbing with exaggerated importance. “Okay. But after that I wanna watch the stars again.”

“We can do that,” Ruan Mei said softly.

From her seat, Herta looked up. “I thought you blocked the observatory feed.”

“I did,” Ruan Mei replied evenly. “But I might unblock it.”

Herta’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because she keeps drawing constellations she shouldn’t know exist.”

The room fell quiet for a beat too long.

Elara, oblivious, hummed as she made another backwards E.

Herta leaned forward slowly. “Like… invented constellations?”

Ruan Mei shook her head. “No. Like ones from deep-space scans that were classified. From Project N.O.V.A.”

Elara dropped her pen with a clatter. “Oops.”

Ruan Mei smiled tightly. “It’s alright, love. Just try again.”

Herta sat very still. “...Do you think she’s remembering something?”

“She’s creating something,” Ruan Mei said, watching Elara out of the corner of her eye. “But I don’t know if it’s from us… or from wherever she was before she got here.”

Elara stretched dramatically in her chair, arms thrown up like a cat sunbathing. “I remember pancakes.”

Herta snorted.

Ruan Mei did not laugh this time. Instead, she looked at the little star scribbled in the corner of the paper. Then back at Elara’s hand.

That faint hum again. Lilac. Rhythmic.

Like the heartbeat of something bigger.

Something very old.

Ruan Mei’s voice lowered to a whisper meant only for Herta:
“She didn’t float because of your witch genes.”

“I know,” Herta whispered back. “You think it’s starting?”

“I think… she’s waking up.”

Elara yawned loudly, draping herself over the table like a wilting fern. “I’m bored now. Can I go look at stars?”

“Yes,” Ruan Mei said, rising to her feet. “Let’s go.”

“But no more paper,” Elara mumbled, already sliding down from her chair. “Paper’s the worst. It tells secrets.”

That made both women freeze.

“…What kind of secrets?” Herta asked slowly.

Elara blinked up at her. “Like… where stars used to be. But now they’re hiding.”

“…Hiding?” Ruan Mei echoed, heart skipping.

Elara reached out, grabbing their hands and tugging toward the hallway with sleepy impatience. “C’monnn. Observatory! I gotta check on the moon.”

“The moon’s not visible right now,” Herta muttered, already being dragged along.

“Then who’s waving at me?” Elara asked, perfectly serious.

Behind them, on the table, the pen flickered once—its tip glowing faintly lilac.

Then, it went still.

The observatory was quiet, bathed in a soft, ambient lavender—the kind designed to simulate peace without sleepiness. Elara pressed her hands and nose against the clear viewport, fogging up the glass with each breath. Beyond the reinforced dome, the stars glittered like frost on a void too wide for human minds to map.

She whispered to herself, tiny voice singing half-melodies, half-math.

“...If Saturn danced around Sol like a kite... would it make spiral cookies...?”

Her fingers traced invisible loops over the glass. Somewhere in the middle of them: the beginnings of a constellation that didn’t officially exist. Not yet.

Behind her, Ruan Mei stood in front of a sealed console—one that hadn’t been activated in years. Its biometric locks pulsed once, then greenlit. The screen flickered on, shedding sterile white light across her features.

Herta had given her a long look before leaving the room—equal parts suspicion and trust. Neither of them said it out loud, but they knew: something was changing. And the N.O.V.A. files… might hold the answer.

ACCESSING: PROJECT N.O.V.A -Pg10
[New Organic Viable Ascendant]

:: FILE 1A: SUBJECT PROFILE — ELARA
:: Classification: Prototype // Status: Reclassified – Inactive Project (???)
:: Cognitive Layering: Unstable dual-state (juvenile/emergent logic core)
:: Neurolight Index: Rising. Resonance with unknown stellar frequencies observed.
:: Observations: Emotional mimicry intact. Initiating independent thought strings. Subject unaware of origin.

:: Core traits: Adaptive cognition | Photonic synapse acceleration | Memory tether instability

:: NOTE (Flagged):
She is evolving without instruction.
She dreams of things we never taught her.
Proceed with extreme caution.

-Emotional mirroring functional. Light signature beginning to synchronize. Subject unaware.

Ruan Mei’s eyes scanned the entry, jaw tightening. There were pieces missing. Data gaps. Blurred logs. Someone had tampered with the record—but not to erase it.

To hide it from her.

She tapped into deeper folders.

:: FILE 2C: Field Reactions — Hypothetical Models
:: Simulation 03.6.44: Astral Pulse → Quantum field echo detected
:: Notable anomaly: “Sympathetic Starfield Resonance.”
:: Result: External shift in photonic signature beyond the station perimeter.
:: Warning: Do not observe without shielding.

Ruan Mei froze.

She looked up at Elara—still staring out at the stars, humming nonsense.

But her fingertips were glowing again.

Faint, soft lilac. That same pulse.

Two beats.
A pause.
One long exhale.

It was matching the file exactly.

"She's syncing with the field," Ruan Mei whispered, throat dry.

From the corner of her eye, another file caught her attention.

:: FILE 9: CREATOR LOGS
$clearanceoverridedenied$
:: Log Entry: Fragment Detected
:: Title: “She Who Carries the Echo of Stars”

Ruan Mei leaned in.

Only static answered her.

Then—three distorted words, half-corrupted by time and encryption:

“…she remembers… again…”

The screen jittered. Not a flicker. A tremor. Like a ripple across reality itself.

Ruan Mei stepped back, breath caught mid-thought.

Her fingers hovered just above the console as it dimmed—
then surged once, softly.

Not a flicker.

A pulse.

Like something ancient recognizing a heartbeat it hadn’t felt in millennia.

Behind the soundproofed glass of the sealed laboratory, Ruan Mei’s world was quiet—bathed in dim amber light and the low buzz of encrypted files decrypting line by line. She leaned over the console, heart racing from the cryptic log she’d just seen.

“…she remembers… again…”

Her fingers hovered above the console, debating whether to probe deeper. But a soft pulse rippled through the floor.

And then—

“I WANTED THE PURPLE CUP!!”

Muffled, but unmistakable.

Ruan Mei flinched and turned. Her eyes drifted toward the long pane of glass separating her from the observatory, where chaos had apparently taken root.

Inside the observatory—

Herta stood frozen mid-sip of her tea, a single eyebrow twitching with mathematical precision.

Elara was full-volume now.

“You gave me the blue one!” she howled, voice bouncing off the dome's reinforced walls like a sonic weapon. “I said purple!! Purple is my favorite! Purple like my magic!!”

Tears streamed down her cheeks in shimmering little rivulets. Her bottom lip trembled.

Then—with the theatrical flair only a magical child could possess—she threw herself onto the floor like a dropped meteor.

Thud.

Legs and arms splayed, her cries echoing in seismic waves of indignation.

From the control panels, warning lights flickered. Atmospheric harmonics dipped for a second. The stars outside—artificial though they were—blinked.

Herta sighed deeply. “The tantrum has entered stage three. Floor collapse.”

The juice cup (blue, of course) rolled innocently to a corner. Offended by its mere presence, Elara pointed at it mid-wail.

“I hate that one!! It’s ugly and sad!”

Lilac light began to curl from her fingertips—barely visible, but enough to send two observation drones hovering nervously out of range. One bumped into the ceiling with a soft ping.

Behind the glass, Ruan Mei pressed her fingers to her mouth.

She’s syncing. With what?

She’s… broadcasting. Emotionally.

Back inside, Herta knelt beside the sobbing heap of astral fury and juice-related disappointment.

“Elara,” she said gently, “we can find the purple one, but you have to stop shorting out the dome’s atmosphere controls.”

Elara rolled over dramatically. “I don’t wanna! I wanted it before!”

“I know. But if you keep glowing like that, we might get unexpected visitors—from space.”

The girl paused, sniffled, and hiccuped mid-glow.

“…Even aliens have purple cups,” she mumbled.

“That’s what I heard.”

Moments later, as Ruan Mei rejoined them, she found Elara half-asleep in Herta’s arms, clutching the rescued purple cup with a sleepy death grip.

Around them, the lights had stabilized. Mostly.

The observatory’s central console, however, quietly lit up with a new alert:

STELLAR FEEDBACK RECEIVED: UNKNOWN FREQUENCY DETECTED
COORDINATES: INBOUND RESPONSE TRAJECTORY—

Ruan Mei's gaze sharpened.

Something… had answered her tantrum.

The soft hum of the station’s systems was a quiet counterpoint to the gentle breaths of the sleeping child curled on the plush blanket in the laboratory’s corner. Elara’s curls sprawled like starlight caught in a gentle breeze, her face peaceful and untouched by the earlier tantrum’s storm.

Herta adjusted the blanket around her with a tenderness that betrayed how rare these calm moments were.

Ruan Mei took a deep breath, turning back to the console. “Alright. Time to see what we’re really dealing with.”

The screen flickered alive, cascading streams of encrypted data unfolding before them. Among the folders, a name pulsed softly in pale lilac: PROJECT N.O.V.A.

Ruan Mei’s fingers danced over the keys, pulling up file after file. Then, pausing on a particularly ominous title, she frowned.

“What’s a… Honkai?” she asked, her voice low and uncertain.

Herta’s eyes darkened as she scrolled through the files. “It’s not just a word. It means ‘collapse’ or ‘decay’—but it’s so much more. The Honkai is a mysterious, life-threatening force. Radiation, beasts, Herrschers. A hivemind bent on destroying humanity.”

Ruan Mei leaned in, trying to grasp the magnitude. “A hivemind? Like a collective intelligence?”

“Yes. They call it the Will of Honkai… the Honkai God,” Herta said, her fingers trembling slightly. “It exists everywhere—across universes. The theory is that it’s the physical manifestation of something called the Sea of Quanta, trying to drown the entire multiverse.”

Ruan Mei’s eyes flickered as a fragmented memory surfaced—faint, like starlight caught behind a veil:

She remembered a glowing blue orb, fragments of light and cosmic whispers… Elara’s arrival like a falling star, the beginning of something impossible.

A sudden violent tremor shook the laboratory, rattling the consoles and sending papers fluttering like frightened moths.

The station groaned.

Herta’s voice was sharp: “What was that—?”

The entire space station shuddered again, harder this time, a harsh metallic groan echoing through the hull.

“Impact!” the intercom crackled. “Unknown object has collided with the station. All personnel brace for possible breach.”

Ruan Mei’s breath hitched. The glowing console flickered wildly.

Then, a new alert flashed in crimson:

STELLAR FEEDBACK RECEIVED: UNKNOWN FREQUENCY DETECTED
COORDINATES: INBOUND RESPONSE TRAJECTORY

“We’re not alone,” Ruan Mei whispered, eyes locked on the screen.

Herta’s gaze flicked toward the sleeping child. “Whatever just hit us—it’s after her.”

Ruan Mei’s jaw tightened, resolve hardening. “And we need to be ready.”

It started as a tremor.

A low, unnatural rumble—no tectonic source, no artificial fault—rattled through the station’s walls like the growl of something waking up from deep space.

The lab lights flickered.

Then screamed.

A high-pitched electromagnetic screech tore through the silence, sending both Herta and Ruan Mei to their knees, clutching their heads as the screen blazed white.

“EMP pulse—no, worse,” Herta gritted out. “It’s not physical—it’s rewriting the air.”

Ruan Mei lunged toward Elara, still bundled in her blanket, still dozing off the remains of her tantrum. “We need to move—now!”

But the corridor outside the lab ripped open before she could finish.

From it, like shadows congealing from smoke, emerged flickering silhouettes—sharp-edged, insectoid, half-flickering and half-real. Honkai constructs.

Quantum Shadows.

Their howls echoed like broken glass dragged against metal.

Herta’s hands were already moving—runic glyphs spiraling in neon arcs. Her voice snapped like a command: “Behind me!”

Elara stirred with a faint whimper, caught between sleep and panic. The air pressure dropped sharply.

Ruan Mei shielded her, trying to pull back toward the secondary door.

“Too slow,” Herta shouted.

Then everything happened at once.

The lead shadow surged, its blade-formed arm raised—
A glyph detonated—
A secondary Honkai pulse exploded through the wall—
And Elara, eyes fluttering half-open, glowed.

It wasn’t a scream.

It was a note—a musical hum of starlight that vibrated through the floor, through Herta’s spells, through the walls of the lab itself.

Above them, the ceiling peeled open like an iris. Not broken—reshaped.

Stars bled through.

Elara’s arms rose with no instruction, guided by something ancient and immense. Lilac magic bloomed like a corona around her as she channeled a wild and wordless connection. Constellations shifted, blinking furiously in answer.

“I don't want them to hurt mama,” she whispered.

Then—

The sky answered.

A burst of stellar energy ripped through the breach, a concentrated beam of pure cosmic light slamming into the Honkai entities with celestial precision. They screamed—disintegrating in glitching static and fading code.

The lab’s floor fractured. Gravity warped. The air vibrated with low, harmonic hums that didn't belong in this dimension.

Herta grabbed Elara as the girl’s legs gave out, small body collapsing under the weight of power too big for her frame.

Ruan Mei hauled the override lever, and a failsafe escape pod slammed open behind them.

“Go!” she shouted, shielding them as one last shard of Honkai glitch twisted toward them—then flickered out in the last remnants of the starlight Elara had summoned.

The station had gone silent again.

Not the silence of catastrophe—no, this one was warm. Clean. A stillness that followed the storm, where every breath felt hard-won and every second stretched long with meaning.

Herta wiped her brow with a sleeve already smudged in glowing sigils. She exhaled as the last restoration rune sparked blue across the mainframe console, fusing broken memory cores and damaged conduits with threads of arcane logic and ethereal wire.

The heart of the station pulsed once, alive again.

“Whole,” she murmured to herself. “Or close enough.”

She slumped back against the console, letting her coat fall off one shoulder, eyes tracking the glittering trail of stars outside the main viewport.

Behind her, in the medbay tucked just past the repair wing, Ruan Mei sat by Elara’s bedside, her long hair a little frizzy from stress and dried tears.

Elara hadn’t stirred. Two full days now.

Her tiny frame looked even smaller in the nest of blankets—floating gently above the mattress thanks to Herta’s levitation magic. But her expression was soft. Peaceful.

“…You scared me, little comet,” Ruan Mei whispered.

She had finally gotten her into a pair of footie pajamas—soft lavender with little constellations and tiny glow-in-the-dark planets sewn into the seams. The effort had made her cry a little more than she wanted to admit. Not out of fear. Just… everything.

Her body ached. Her stomach was sore, her limbs heavy. The hormones weren’t helping.

Ruan Mei leaned over and tucked a fuzzy star plush under Elara’s hand. “Herta wanted to give you robot arms,” she murmured in mock scandal. “Said it would be efficient.”

No reaction from the sleeping girl.

But the corner of her lip twitched—maybe.

Ruan Mei sniffled.

She smoothed Elara’s curls back gently, pausing when she noticed the faint shimmer still clinging to her daughter’s cheeks—residual star energy, dormant now but crackling faintly when touched.

“She used the stars like they were listening,” she said aloud, voice thick. “And they… they really were.”

A soft hum echoed behind her. Herta floated in, boots barely making a sound, her braid a little frazzled but face finally calm.

“Repairs are done,” she announced, tone quieter than usual. “I rewired three decks and unfried the comms. I might’ve used the wrong star rune once. If someone sees a floating banana in the mess hall, ignore it.”

Ruan Mei chuckled softly.

Herta stepped closer and looked down at Elara, then at Ruan Mei. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You're still bleeding, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine,” Ruan Mei said, brushing it off. “I’m just... tired. And grateful.”

Herta conjured a glowing cushion and plopped it behind Ruan Mei’s back with a grunt. “There. Sit straight. Take care of yourself while you take care of her.”

They sat together in that warm space for a while, watching the little body wrapped in stars and sleepy magic drift in gentle stasis.

Elara gave a tiny sigh in her sleep and shifted, reaching instinctively toward them. Her tiny fingers curled in the air.

Ruan Mei didn’t hesitate—she leaned forward and gently wrapped her fingers around the tiny ones. Herta joined her, her hand overlapping theirs.

A slow, silent tether formed between them.

No words. Just that soft hum of connection.

Family.

Across the cosmos, the light from the restored space station shimmered like a beacon—brief, brilliant, and unnatural.

It wasn’t light from any star.

It was the kind of light born from unmaking.

From collapse.

From something touching the Honkai.

And far, far away, something stirred.

Elsewhere: The Antumbra Fold

Deep within a broken shard of spacetime—tucked between dimensions where nothing living should exist—a woman with white-silver hair paused mid-meditation.

Her eyes snapped open. Irises glowing violet, pupil dilated to a pinprick.

“...No,” she whispered. “It’s too soon.”

She stood, cape fluttering behind her as the echoes of that pulse slammed through her skull like a psychic scream.

Behind her, a massive Honkai beast groaned, dragging itself through the void like a wounded god. It halted, shuddered, and then whimpered—the first time such a thing had ever done so.

The pulse had reached even here.

She touched the hilt of her blade.

“She’s here,” she breathed. “The fragment... the child... it survived.”

Location: The Xianzhou Luofu – Forbidden Archives

Scrolls fluttered, untouched.

A flame-shaped charm suspended in a crystal cage snapped in half, sending a jolt through the warded chamber.

An old Diviner jerked awake, mouth dry.

“The Will of Honkai has... changed vectors,” he muttered to no one.

He reached for a brush, scribbled in crimson ink a single phrase:

“星辰覚醒 — The Stars Have Awakened.”

Then promptly passed out, blood dripping from his nose.

Location: Aboard the Antimatter Legion’s War Frigate

Kukuria paused in her schematics.

Something strange flickered across her multiverse scanner—just for a nanosecond.

It wasn’t Imaginary.

It wasn’t Real.

It was something else.

She narrowed her eyes, adjusted her glasses, and pulled up an old project tag buried in ancient code:

[N.O.V.A. SIGNAL — DETECTED]

“...Impossible.”

Back in the Station

Elara gave a soft sigh in her sleep, a faint shimmer of stars tracing across her cheeks. Her foot twitched under the blanket. A stuffed bunny levitated briefly before plopping back down.

Herta, unaware of the stellar ripple effect, scratched her head. “Did you feel that weird tickle in your teeth just now?”

Ruan Mei glanced toward the sealed viewport. Her fingers paused over Elara’s pulse. Still strong. Still steady.

But something far away was answering.

And it was getting closer.

Garden of Recollection

Somewhere between the seams of memory and dream, a field of silver grass rippled—not from wind, but from reverberation.

Blades shimmered as if each held a reflection of a different timeline, trembling under a silent pulse.

A Recollector paused mid-archive, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She didn’t look up as the petals from the Blooming Tree started to fall in reverse.

Something had unwritten itself—briefly.

“An echo that remembers before it was born...” she murmured.

A tall figure in flowing violet stood atop the mirrored lake in the center of the garden, arms spread as if feeling vibrations through space itself.

“The stars just sang a name not yet etched in fate,” murmured the figure. “One that remembers everything... before memory itself.”

A single page fluttered open on the grand book of aeons behind them. No hands had touched it.

The word:

Elara.

The Stelleron Hunters

Kafka was lounging with her boots on a stolen console, half-focused on a half-deciphered Stellaron transmission, when she stiffened.

The song in her head changed pitch.

Her foot dropped.

“What the hell was that?”

Silver Wolf, seated nearby, didn’t even look up from her game. “You mean the star-flare that broke through five firewalls and triggered seven Aeon-pings across six databases?”

She popped a candy in her mouth.

“Yeah. I noticed.”

Kafka stood, eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t a Stellaron.”

“Nope,” Silver Wolf said, casually flicking a holo-screen. “Not Nanook. Not Yaoshi. Not even Xipe. It was... organic.”

Kafka’s gaze turned glassy. A memory she hadn’t lived fluttered behind her eyes. Something like a cradle. Something like—

“Her.”

She smiled. Just a little.

“You’re finally waking up, aren’t you?”

Back to the Station

Herta sneezed.

“That was cosmic-grade interference,” she muttered, conjuring a bubble of magic to check for anomalies.

Ruan Mei, rubbing her temples, caught a glimpse of Elara’s hand twitch. A faint hum—like distant singing stars—vibrated through the walls again.

“She doesn’t just draw from the stars,” Ruan Mei whispered. “She’s calling to them.”

Elara shifted in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent, her lilac aura briefly flaring like a heartbeat in the dark.

Outside, in the silence of space, the stars blinked in reply.

Chapter Text

The hum of the station was quieter than usual. Not gone—just… cautious. Like the entire structure was holding its breath.

Herta was elbow-deep in a glitching terminal, a trail of stardust grime across her cheek. Loose diagnostic windows floated around her like paper lanterns, flickering in and out as she re-threaded broken runes through their anchor points. She muttered as she worked.

“Quantum crumbs in the uplink... floating bananas in the cafeteria core... oh, I’m definitely adding childproof locks. Maybe even Elara-proof ones. She teleported inside the maintenance ducts again.”

A loose panel sparked. She growled at it.

Across the room, Ruan Mei stood at the primary archive console, sleeves rolled and hair pinned back messily. Her fingers danced across glowing glyphs as she manually restored memory archives—one by one.

Her screen stuttered. Then:

File: REZ-HRT_SGNR--corrupted//resonant_heart_signature--?mother?//

A strange hum spilled from the speakers. A voice, not quite human, whispered a single word.

“...mother…”

Ruan Mei didn’t flinch. She simply leaned in closer, breath catching.

Behind her, Herta glanced up, sensing the silence stretch like skin over too much light.

“More corruption?” she asked, carefully neutral.

Ruan Mei nodded. “Or memory. She left echoes. Or someone did.”

They stood in it for a moment—the quiet gravity of what Elara had done. And what it meant.

Later, in the dim corridor outside the medbay, the tension finally cracked.

The lights were low, humming faintly. The walls still carried the faint scent of ozone and repairs. Ruan Mei leaned against the wall beside her, arms loosely crossed, her eyes unfocused.

Herta’s hands trembled slightly as she stared down at her gloves.

“She’s okay,” Ruan Mei said gently.

“I know,” Herta replied. “That’s not the part that scared me.”

Ruan Mei didn’t press. Just waited.

“She could’ve burned us all out,” Herta muttered. “Or worse. And yet I wasn’t afraid of what she could do—I was afraid of what would happen if she didn’t come back to us.”

Ruan Mei tilted her head, lips parting in soft surprise.

“That’s not science,” Herta grumbled. “It’s emotional contamination.”

“Or,” Ruan Mei said, stepping closer, “you’re just human.”

She bumped her shoulder gently against Herta’s.

Silence.

After a long moment, Herta leaned her head back against the wall and whispered, “I think she changed me.”

Ruan Mei smiled.

“She changed everything.”

Inside the medbay, the light was even softer—dim lavender-blue from the artificial night cycle, filtered through the transparent walls of their little cocoon.

Elara floated gently in her sleep, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by her sleepy army of stuffed animals and floating plush stars. Her fingers twitched as if holding something invisible. A dreamy sigh escaped her lips.

Ruan Mei and Herta stood beside her now, the rest of the world slowing down.

“Still no date in the logs?” Herta asked, her voice subdued.

“Nothing. She wasn’t assigned one.” Ruan Mei frowned. “There’s no record of when she entered the world.”

“Maybe she doesn’t have a birthday,” Herta said quietly. “Not in the way we think of it.”

Ruan Mei glanced down.

“Maybe she gets to choose.”

Elara stirred. Her lips moved, just barely.

“...November fifth…”

They both froze.

“What?” Herta breathed.

Elara murmured again, softer: “Cake… with moons on it…”

And then, floating from her fingertips, a tiny spark of lilac light rose into the air—curling into the shape of a glowing 5before dissolving like sugar into stardust.

Ruan Mei stared, hand clasping her heart.

“She just told us,” she whispered.

“She remembered before we even asked,” Herta said, stunned.

They knelt together.

Ruan Mei reached out and brushed a curl behind Elara’s ear. “November fifth,” she repeated gently. “Your day.”

She leaned down and placed a kiss to the girl’s forehead. A ripple of warmth spread beneath her lips, like the air itself responding.

Herta hesitated—then kissed Ruan Mei’s temple, softly, awkwardly.

Ruan Mei turned toward her, heart beating fast. Their eyes met.

One heartbeat. Two.

They kissed—tentative at first, then melting into something real, something earned, something whole.

Above them, Elara’s aura pulsed again—soft, like a lullaby.

The artificial sun had risen—just enough to cast a buttery gold over the medbay walls, chasing away the lavender tones of the night.

Elara was still tucked beneath her star-printed blanket, the fox plush cradled in one arm. Her lashes fluttered, half-awake, but her breathing was even.

Ruan Mei stood at her bedside, stylus in one hand and a glowing tablet in the other. She glanced down at the vitals pulsing across the screen: heart rate steady, temperature normal, traces of magic still humming gently through her nervous system like a second heartbeat.

“I think her spell signature’s stabilizing,” she murmured. “But she’ll need food soon. Something safe.”

“Right.” Herta was already typing rapidly on a holographic console near the wall. “I’ll put in a custom order. Oat porridge. Sliced apples. Soy butter. Rice cake shaped like a flower. I’ve got this.”

Ruan Mei raised a brow. “No experimenting. No weird garnishes. No edible glitter.”

Herta huffed. “I'm not a monster.”

“Good. Because I still remember your attempt at quantum toast.”

“It was meant to sing.”

“It screamed.”

A small sound made them both pause. Elara had stirred, blinking sleepily, curls a mess and eyes glassy with leftover dreams.

“Mmnn... purple sippy cup,” she mumbled, voice groggy.

Ruan Mei smiled down at her. “Oh? Purple today?”

“Not the lavender one. The deep purple. The one with the tiny stars on the rim.”

“I know exactly the one,” Ruan Mei said, kissing her fingertips before gently pressing them to Elara’s forehead. “Good morning, little nova.”

Elara blinked up at her. “Did you kiss my brain?”

“It’s a scientific encouragement kiss.”

“That’s fake.”

“It’s peer-reviewed in this room.”

Herta, still grumbling, finished her input at the terminal. “Food will be here in seven minutes. I flagged it as priority medical. If anyone from research complains about being caffeine-deprived, I’ll put a wormhole in their coffee.”

“Thank you, Herta,” Ruan Mei said sweetly. “Could you grab her clean clothes from the drawer? The soft ones?”

Herta gave a dramatic sigh but went to the drawer anyway. She pulled out a pair of star-print leggings, a soft cotton top with a sleepy fox on it, and a spare purple cardigan with constellations stitched into the sleeves.

Elara lit up at the sight. “That one feels like hugs.”

“It was made with hugs,” Ruan Mei said, gently helping her sit up. “Now, let me check your heartbeat.”

Elara sat obediently still, only wiggling a little as Ruan Mei tapped a stethoscope against her chest.

“Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub—wait. Did your heart just say ‘cupcake’?”

Elara giggled.

Herta folded the clothes and added, “If her heart starts manifesting dessert-based spell signatures, we’re renaming her profile ‘Project Sweet Nova.’”

Elara beamed. “Then I want to be the Aeon of Pastries.”

Ruan Mei raised a brow. “With what domain? Cosmic doughnuts?”

“With interstellar frosting,” Elara said proudly.

The medbay hummed gently around them, a soft sanctuary of breath and warmth.

The medbay doors slid open with a soft hiss.

“Priority meal delivery,” came the bored voice of the logistics drone, hovering in with a tray carefully balanced between stabilizing emitters. “Breakfast: one porridge, two rice flower cakes, fruit slices arranged like a smiling sun, and… a purple star-rimmed sippy cup.”

The drone deposited the tray on the rolling table beside Elara’s bed and zipped off before anyone could thank it.

Elara lit up. “That’s my cup!”

Herta wheeled the tray closer, setting the table in front of Elara like she was serving the heir to a celestial throne. “Bon appétit, Your Littleness.”

Ruan Mei handed Elara a spoon, then gently placed the sippy cup in her hands.

And that’s when it happened.

For a second—less than that, really—Ruan Mei saw it.

The surface of the cup shimmered. Not the plastic itself, but the space around it—like light was bending wrong. Like the universe had held its breath for just a moment.

The stars on the rim flickered.

Elara didn’t seem to notice. She took a long sip and sighed happily. “It’s warm! And it tastes like stars and sleepy hugs.”

Ruan Mei blinked, trying to catch the shimmer again, but it was gone. The cup was just a cup now. Purple, with tiny stars. A toddler’s delight. Nothing more.

Except…

“Did you feel that?” she asked quietly, eyes flicking to Herta.

Herta, already inspecting a rice cake like it owed her answers, frowned. “Feel what?”

“The cup. There was a field distortion. Brief, but real.”

“Elara has magic. Cups near her will eventually have existential crises. That’s just how she is.”

But Ruan Mei didn’t laugh this time. She kept her eyes on Elara, who was now happily squishing an apple slice into the shape of a planet.

“It wasn’t just ambient magic,” she said slowly. “It felt like… resonance.”

“From the cup?”

“From her,” Ruan Mei whispered.

Elara glanced up, fruit planet in hand. “Can I name this one Hug-o-Tron?”

“Approved,” Herta said instantly. “Its gravitational pull is affection.”

Elara giggled.

But Ruan Mei leaned back slightly, heart ticking faster. She watched the soft lilac glow still hovering faintly around Elara’s shoulders. Not visible to the eye—but her instruments had picked it up before. Just after the fever. Just after the levitation.

She hadn’t imagined it then.

And she wasn’t imagining it now.

The food sat warm and untouched for a few seconds longer as Ruan Mei whispered to herself: “She didn’t draw power from the stars… they leaned in.”

Elara let out a satisfied sigh, hugging her sippy cup close to her chest like it was a treasured prize. “That was the best breakfast ever.”

“You said that yesterday,” Ruan Mei teased, brushing a crumb from Elara’s cheek.

“I mean it every time,” Elara said earnestly, sipping again with a soft slurp. “Today’s best is better than yesterday’s best.”

“Well said,” Herta muttered. “A flawless argument. Devastating in its logic.”

Elara gave her a sleepy smile and stretched out her arms. “Can I get up now?”

Ruan Mei hesitated. “Are you sure you feel okay, sweetpea? No dizziness?”

Elara nodded quickly. “I feel good. Super good. I wanna go see the stars.”

“We can take a walk,” Ruan Mei said gently. “But only if you let Herta carry you. No racing the station drones just yet.”

Elara immediately turned to Herta and raised her arms. “Carry me?”

Herta blinked. “Why me?”

“Because your arms are bouncy and you always smell like library,” Elara explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

“Those are not adjectives typically associated with physical support.”

Elara didn’t budge. Just kept her arms up and her cup held tight with one hand.

Herta stared down at her.

Then sighed.

Then bent down and scooped Elara up in one smooth motion. “I am surrendering to the enemy. This is emotional warfare.”

“I win,” Elara declared softly, nuzzling her head into Herta’s shoulder.

“You always do,” Ruan Mei murmured with a smile, watching the two of them. “Let’s go then.”

They stepped into the corridor together, the medbay door sliding shut behind them with a soft whoosh. The station outside was quieter now—repairs had wrapped up, and the emergency lights had dimmed back to soft ambient hues.

Elara rested peacefully in Herta’s arms, sipping now and then from her cup as they walked.

Her little legs dangled.

Her grip never loosened.

And just for a moment—as they passed a hallway window—the distant stars twinkled.

Not randomly.

But rhythmically.

Like they were sipping too.

Chapter Text

The corridor outside the medbay was quiet enough to hear the soft hum of the ventilation systems, the faint shift of metal settling. Herta carried Elara in the crook of one arm like a well-trained, extremely smug cat. Elara, sipping lazily from her purple star-rimmed cup, rested her head on Herta’s shoulder.

“Where are the stars?” she mumbled, her voice syrupy with the last traces of sleep.

“Observation lounge,” Ruan Mei said, walking beside them with a slow, even pace. “Five minutes, if someone doesn’t make us stop for a gravity-flip ride along the way.”

“That someone,” Herta said, “had better be asleep before they try it.”

“I’m not sleepy,” Elara said, finishing her sip. “I’m cosmic.”

Herta huffed, but her grip tightened subtly. “Cosmic or not, you’re not walking yet. Doctor’s orders.”

They reached the lounge without interruption. The curved wall of reinforced glass opened into a sweep of black velvet scattered with stars, distant worlds, and a nebula that spilled color like bruised sunlight.

Herta set Elara down carefully on the padded bench by the window, keeping her sippy cup within arm’s reach. “There. Your galaxy, madam.”

Elara pressed both hands to the glass and began pointing out constellations with wild abandon. “That one’s The Snuggle Dragon. And that one’s Sir Cupcake of Nebula Town. Oh! That one looks like a bunny with a really big butt.”

Herta muttered, “Astronomy textbooks are doomed,” but her lips twitched upward.

Ruan Mei stood a little apart, stylus poised over her tablet. To anyone else, she looked like she was making idle notes — but the stylus tip was hovering over a set of scanning glyphs, catching faint fluctuations in Elara’s aura. Each pulse was subtle, but it wasn’t random. Her heartbeat, her breath, and—Ruan Mei’s eyes flicked to the viewport—the distant rhythm of a particular cluster of stars.

She glanced sideways, careful to keep her expression smooth. The readings looked disturbingly like synchronization.

“Mama,” Elara called, “come sit! I’ll make room next to Sir Cupcake.”

Ruan Mei smiled and crossed the room, tucking the tablet under one arm. “Of course, little nova.”

A soft chime interrupted the moment — a small serving drone hovered in, its tray laden with tiny snack samples from the lounge’s menu. The AI voice was perky, almost apologetic.

“Complimentary refreshment service: fruit skewers, oat biscuits, and mini marshmallow comets!”

Elara’s eyes went round. “Comets!”

Herta frowned immediately. “Wait—”

Too late. Elara reached for a marshmallow comet and took a bite before anyone could stop her. Within seconds, she froze, chewing slowing, eyes watering.

“Elara?” Ruan Mei’s voice sharpened.

The girl whimpered, pressing her hand to her throat. “It’s… itchy…”

Herta’s chair scraped the floor as she moved fast. “Allergy. Which ingredient?”

Ruan Mei was already kneeling, pulling a compact medkit from her pocket. “The glaze—they use gelatin derived from—damn it, sea algae.”

Herta swore under her breath. “She’s allergic to all sea products—”

“I know,” Ruan Mei cut in, voice clipped but calm. She pressed a small dissolving strip against Elara’s tongue, then gently tipped her sippy cup for a drink. “Breathe, sweetpea. Just breathe.”

Elara’s breathing hitched once, twice, then steadied. The redness around her eyes began to fade, though she stayed trembling in Ruan Mei’s arms.

“You’re okay,” Ruan Mei whispered, rubbing her back. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I didn’t know comets had sea in them…” Elara murmured weakly.

“Some do,” Herta said darkly. “And those ones are dead to me.”

The serving drone, oblivious, chirped: “Would you like me to replace the tray?”

Herta turned her glare on it. “If you bring another sea comet anywhere near her, I’ll reprogram you to only serve lukewarm tap water.”

The drone zipped away in silence.

Ruan Mei rocked Elara gently, tucking the girl’s head under her chin. “No more comets for now. Just stars. Only the safe ones.”

Elara clung tighter, and outside the lounge window, that same distant star cluster pulsed once—bright enough to make Ruan Mei glance back at the glass, heart beating faster.

Chapter Text

Elara’s small body shook with quiet sobs as she clung to Ruan Mei, her face pressed into the curve of her chest. Hiccups rattled through her tiny frame, and her tears soaked into Ruan Mei’s collar. The dissolving strip had stilled the immediate reaction, but the panic still lingered, sharp and raw. Her lips quivered as she whispered, “It… it itched…”

Ruan Mei rubbed slow, soothing circles along her back, careful not to jostle her too much. “It’s over, little one. You’re safe. No more itching, I promise.” Her voice was soft but steady, the kind of voice that tried to anchor a scared child in reality when everything felt unpredictable.

Herta was on high alert, her hands moving quickly to inspect the medkit, the snack tray, and even the nearby service drone. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, eyes darting between Elara and the tray that had betrayed them. “That’s it. No more mystery snacks,” she said firmly, snapping the tray shut with a sharp motion. The drone retreated silently, seemingly aware it had earned a scolding. Herta then knelt, pulling out a fresh sippy cup still sealed. “Only your juice. Pear and starfruit. Nothing else. No eggs, nuts, wheat, soy, sea… nothing that can hurt you. Just safe. Just yours.”

Elara sniffled, reaching out for the cup with trembling hands. Ruan Mei steadied it for her, guiding the straw gently to her lips. Small, careful sips followed, and with each swallow, her trembling began to ease. The tears hadn’t all stopped, but the terror in her wide eyes softened, replaced with a fragile trust.

“That’s it, sweetpea,” Ruan Mei whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. “See? Only the good kind. Only safe things.” She tucked her hand under Elara’s chin to lift her face, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head.

Herta crouched to Elara’s level, her stern posture softened by worry. “You scared us,” she murmured, trying to sound strict but failing entirely. Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the worry she usually tried to hide. “Don’t do that again, okay?”

Elara hiccupped again, wrapping her tiny arms around both Ruan Mei and Herta as if to anchor herself in the warmth of their presence. Ruan Mei held her close, rocking gently. “Shh… it’s over,” she cooed. “No comets, no strange glaze, nothing but safe stars for you. We’ve got you. Always.”

Herta’s hand brushed over Elara’s back, steadying her. “And nothing will sneak past us again,” she said firmly. “We’ve got eyes on every corner of this station if we have to.” Her protective glare softened only slightly as she watched Elara take another careful sip.

For a long moment, the three of them stayed that way—Ruan Mei murmuring soft reassurances, Herta muttering safety checks under her breath, and Elara clinging tight, her small body finally starting to relax.

Ruan Mei lifted Elara slightly from the floor, cradling her in one arm. The girl still clutched her sippy cup, tiny hands trembling, but the soft rhythm of her drinking showed she was calming.

“We should get her back to the medbay,” Ruan Mei said quietly to Herta, her voice low, almost hesitant, as if she didn’t want to disturb the fragile calm they’d just restored. “Just to monitor her for a bit, make sure nothing lingers.”

Herta’s eyes flicked toward the stars outside, then back at Elara’s tear-streaked face. “Yeah. I agree,” she said, her tone rougher than she intended. “But she stays in my arms unless she demands otherwise.” She bent to tuck a soft blanket around Elara, smoothing the folds gently.

Elara hiccupped again, looking between them with big watery eyes. “No… not leave the stars,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “Sir Cupcake…”

Ruan Mei smiled softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll go back soon, little nova. But first, you need rest and safety. We’re not letting anything hurt you again.”

Herta adjusted her grip, securing the blanket and holding Elara close. “Safe juice, safe blanket, safe arms. That’s all that matters right now,” she murmured.

As they walked toward the medbay, the lights along the corridor reflected in the glass walls, and for a fleeting moment, Ruan Mei caught the corner of her vision—the same star cluster from before pulsing faintly, a soft glow that seemed almost synchronized with Elara’s quieted heartbeat. She didn’t speak of it, merely filing it away in her mind for later study.

Elara’s head lolled slightly against Ruan Mei’s shoulder, eyes half-closed, still clinging to her sippy cup. Herta’s hand pressed lightly on her back, steady and protective. “We’re right here,” Herta said softly. “Nothing else can get to you while we’re with you.”

And though the stars outside continued their distant dance, inside the station, a small bubble of warmth and care held her safe—two guardians, a fresh cup of juice, and the quiet promise that even the cosmos itself wouldn’t come between them.

Once they arrived at the medbay, Ruan Mei set Elara gently on the padded examination couch. Herta stayed close, keeping a hand on her back, smoothing the blanket and whispering soft encouragements.

“Alright, little nova,” Ruan Mei murmured, producing a compact scanning device from her pocket. The sleek instrument hovered over Elara’s chest and arms, emitting a faint lilac glow as it mapped her vitals with precision. Heart rate, breathing, oxygen saturation—all within normal range, though Ruan Mei noted the slight post-allergic elevation in heart rhythm.

She tapped a few glyphs on the device, cross-referencing with Elara’s known allergy profile. “No residual histamine spike,” she reported softly to Herta. “The strip worked. Still, I’ll monitor for delayed reactions.” Her eyes flicked to the sippy cup beside Elara, checking for any possible contamination—nothing. Pear and starfruit, safe as promised.

Ruan Mei’s device traced subtle patterns along Elara’s aura, barely visible to the eye: a gentle lilac shimmer, almost as if the girl’s very biology was resonating with the cosmos. It pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat. She noted it carefully, silent, her mind cataloging the anomaly for later study.

“Pulse steady,” Ruan Mei murmured, placing a hand lightly over Elara’s tiny one. “Respiration normal. No rash, no swelling beyond minor redness from the crying. Safe, and stable.”

Herta crouched beside the couch once Elara’s sobs had softened, pulling a small cluster of her favorite toys from her bag. “Alright, madam, you’ve survived the evil snack. Here’s your reinforcements.” She laid out a plush dragon, a tiny bunny, and a knitted star, each one arranged carefully so Elara could reach them without stretching or risking fatigue.

Elara blinked at them, the corners of her lips twitching into the tiniest smile. She reached out, gripping the plush dragon first, pressing it to her chest as if it could absorb the remnants of fear. Herta settled beside her, guiding her little hands to the other toys, arranging them into a small constellation on the blanket.

Ruan Mei continued her scanning quietly, not interrupting the moment. She measured subtle fluctuations: core temperature steady at 36.8°C, oxygen saturation 99%, pulse 118 and steady—slightly elevated from the adrenaline spike but returning to baseline. A quick dermal scan confirmed no lingering irritation from the snack; all the previously high-risk zones—throat, cheeks, and hands—were calm.

“All clear,” Ruan Mei whispered at last, folding her device. “You’re perfectly safe now, little one. Everything’s under control. No residual reaction, no complications.”

Elara clutched her constellation of toys, leaning slightly against Herta. Herta rested a hand on her shoulder, her thumb tracing circles absentmindedly on the blanket. “Safe. You’re safe,” she repeated, the words as much for herself as for Elara.

Outside the viewport, the stars shimmered faintly. Ruan Mei’s gaze drifted briefly to that same distant cluster. Its pulse seemed almost… aware, synchronized with the soft rise and fall of Elara’s chest. She made a mental note: subtle, precise, and worthy of investigation once the girl was fully calm. For now, though, her little patient was safe, snug, and slowly smiling again.

After a little while, Elara had arranged her constellation of toys across the blanket, each one carefully placed beside the plush dragon she refused to let go of. She giggled softly, tapping the knitted star like it had a secret, then nudged the bunny into orbit around the dragon. Herta crouched beside her, helping to gently move the toys without disturbing the arrangement too much.

Ruan Mei watched for a moment, a small smile tugging at her lips. Then she straightened and turned to Herta. “Herta, can you take her for a bath?” she asked softly. “I’ll find some fresh pajamas for her while you do.”

Herta’s eyes flicked to Elara, who immediately pouted at the suggestion. “Bath? But I’m playing with Sir Cupcake and the dragon!” she whined, clutching the plush tighter.

Herta held out her hands, still patient but firm. “I know, little one. But baths keep the scary itch away, and Mama Ruan Mei and I promised you’d be safe and comfy. This one will be quick, and you’ll still have your toys after.”

Elara hesitated, blinking her big eyes at Ruan Mei, who nodded encouragingly. “It’s just a bath, little nova. Just water and warmth. Nothing scary.”

Elara sighed, finally allowing Herta to scoop her up gently. Her sippy cup was set aside carefully—empty, but safely nearby—and she pressed herself into Herta’s shoulder, letting out a tiny, reluctant hiccup.

As Herta carried her toward the wash station, Ruan Mei slipped down the corridor to a storage locker, searching through drawers for pajamas. She selected a soft set in muted lilac, perfect for Elara’s skin and easy for her small frame. Each piece was smooth, seamless where possible, and fully hypoallergenic—no silk, no wool, no dyes that could irritate her sensitive skin, and certainly free of anything from her long list of allergies.

Herta carried Elara back to the medbay, the little girl’s small hands still gripping her shoulder lightly. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, and the soft hum of the station seemed to soothe her with every step. The familiar scent of the medbay, faintly antiseptic but comforting, mixed with the warmth of Herta’s arms and the subtle lavender of Ruan Mei’s cloak, creating a cocoon of safety.

Once they reached the small bed, Herta lowered Elara carefully, making sure the blanket tucked around her was snug and even. The plush dragon she refused to let go of was placed at her side, the tiny knitted star and bunny forming a protective constellation around her. Her sippy cup rested safely on the bedside tray, fully emptied and ready for later. Elara’s breaths began to even out, a tiny yawn slipping past trembling lips, and she curled up, hugging her toys close. Within moments, she was asleep, the medbay’s quiet hum blending with the soft rhythm of her breathing.

Herta lingered a moment, brushing a stray lock of hair from Elara’s forehead and smoothing the blanket one last time. Her shoulders relaxed, tension melting away as relief washed over her. She let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, the events of the past hour—the fear, the panic, the near disaster—finally catching up with her.

Ruan Mei approached, her steps quiet, careful. She reached out, sliding her hand into Herta’s, and for a moment, they simply held each other’s gaze, letting unspoken thoughts pass between them. The weight of responsibility, the fear, and the gratitude they shared for Elara’s safety lingered in the air.

Without a word, they leaned into each other, foreheads touching first, and then lips meeting in a soft, lingering kiss. Herta’s arms wrapped securely around Ruan Mei’s waist, pulling her closer, while Ruan Mei’s hands rested gently on Herta’s shoulders. They remained there for a long, quiet moment, absorbing the calm, the relief, and the deep love that had always been quietly threading through their lives.

Ruan Mei’s thoughts drifted briefly to the N.O.V.A. files, the flickering lights of the distant star cluster, and the faint pulse she had noticed before. But tonight, she set those worries aside. Tonight was about presence, about warmth, about being here, fully, in this quiet sanctuary with Herta and their sleeping little nova.

Pulling back slightly, they rested their foreheads together, breathing in sync, letting the gentle warmth of their bodies and the medbay lights wash over them. “She’s safe,” Herta murmured, her voice soft but full of emotion, trembling just slightly with relief.

“She is,” Ruan Mei agreed, closing her eyes for a moment, resting her cheek against Herta’s. “And we’re right here. Always.”

They sank onto the edge of the bed together, arms entwined, shoulders pressed close. The tension of the day slowly melted into warmth, a quiet intimacy that didn’t need words. Fingers intertwined, they let themselves simply exist in the calm, hearts settling after the storm.

Herta’s hand brushed over Ruan Mei’s, thumbs tracing tiny circles absentmindedly, while Ruan Mei rested her head against Herta’s shoulder. Outside the medbay, the faint shimmer of distant stars pulsed softly, almost in time with their breathing. For a fleeting moment, the universe seemed to hold its breath, honoring the small bubble of peace around them.

And there, in that quiet room, with the soft glow of instruments and the gentle hum of life-sustaining systems all around, they simply stayed together. Safe, warm, and tethered to each other—and to the sleeping little nova who had unknowingly reminded them of the fragility, and the preciousness, of every moment.

Eventually, Ruan Mei shifted slightly, laying her head against Herta’s chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart beneath her ear. Herta’s arms tightened ever so slightly around her, holding her close. They let themselves linger in the silence, in the quiet intimacy, letting the events of the day settle into memory.

And as Elara slept, nestled in her little bed, with her constellation of toys and sippy cup at her side, the medbay became a haven: a quiet, reflective space where fear had been replaced by love, vigilance by tenderness, and chaos by calm. Tonight, they allowed themselves to breathe. To feel. To simply be.

Herta and Ruan Mei settled into the cushioned chairs along the medbay wall, hands brushing, shoulders close. From here, they could watch over Elara, who lay curled among her toys, her breathing even and soft.

“She’s stronger than I thought,” Herta murmured, glancing down at the sleeping child.

Ruan Mei’s eyes didn’t leave her. “Always was,” she said quietly, voice barely above the hum of the station. “Even small… she has a way of rising.”

Elara shifted in her sleep, a faint whimper escaping before her expression smoothed again. Beneath her skin, a subtle lilac glow pulsed in rhythm with her tiny heartbeat, faint as starlight.

In her dream, the edges of the medbay dissolved into something warmer, softer, yet strangely familiar. She was two again, small and wobbly, sitting on a floor scattered with blocks that hovered and spun lazily above her hands. Each laugh sent them drifting, weightless, as if the air itself obeyed her whim.

A calm voice echoed, smooth and gentle. “Careful, little one.”

Ruan Mei was there, but not quite. Her figure flickered, sometimes tall and steady, sometimes smaller, closer—her hands guiding, her stylus tracing unreadable patterns in the air, scanning Elara in a rhythm that matched her own pulse.

Elara reached for a block, and it floated upward in a slow arc. She clapped, and it wobbled, spiraled, then drifted back down. She squealed in delight, and somewhere between the laugh and the shimmer of her glowing aura, the space around her seemed to stretch and bend.

“Good… just one at a time,” the voice murmured, warm and precise. A patch pressed lightly to her arm; she felt it but couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined.

The blocks shifted again, sometimes too fast, sometimes suspended impossibly in midair. Laughter, lilac light, gentle hands—everything melted together in a haze of warmth and guidance.

Back in the medbay, Elara’s tiny hums and soft twitches were the only hints of what she was experiencing. Herta leaned slightly forward, voice low. “She’s dreaming.”

Ruan Mei nodded, eyes thoughtful. She didn’t speak further, letting the quiet and the steady glow of her little nova fill the room. Outside, distant stars shimmered faintly, echoing the lilac pulses beneath Elara’s skin, blurring the line between what had been, what could be, and what simply was.

Chapter Text

Elara’s eyes fluttered open, her lashes sticking together from sleep. For a moment she looked every bit the little girl she was—clutching her dragon, cheeks still damp from the night before, voice scratchy with morning.

But then, as Ruan Mei smoothed her hair back and Herta adjusted the blanket, Elara’s gaze sharpened. The sleepy haze vanished, replaced by a strange clarity. Her pupils caught the light of the medbay, reflecting it like tiny galaxies.

She smiled, sly in a way that didn’t belong to a four-year-old.
“I saw you kiss.”

Both women froze.

Elara tilted her head, her small hands gripping her dragon like a scepter. “Do it again. For me.”

Herta nearly choked on her own breath. “Wh—what?!” she sputtered, straightening so fast her chair squeaked against the floor. “We don’t just—just—perform on command like… like…!”

Ruan Mei, for once, was not composed. Her lips parted, her normally calm voice caught in her throat. She looked between Elara and Herta, caught utterly off guard.

Elara’s expression softened, playful but threaded with something far older. “The cosmos is full of truths you can’t hide.” She giggled, the sound small, but the lilac shimmer beneath her skin flared with each note. Outside, the stars flickered faintly in response.

Herta ran a hand down her face. “Unbelievable. She’s blackmailing us with starlight.”

Elara beamed, swaying slightly on the bed. “Not blackmail. Just truth. You love each other.” She turned her gaze deliberately to Ruan Mei. “Don’t you?”

Ruan Mei inhaled slowly, searching for footing on a ground that felt suddenly fragile. “Love,” she said carefully, “is… complicated.”

“Not to me,” Elara said simply, settling back against her pillow. “I can feel it. It’s like the stars hum louder when you’re together.”

The two women shared a look, silent but charged. Finally, with a huff, Herta leaned over and pressed the quickest, flustered kiss to Ruan Mei’s cheek. Ruan Mei blinked, startled but pink at the edges, her usual composure shattered.

Elara giggled again, delighted. The lights outside the viewport brightened faintly, as though the cosmos itself approved.

“Happy?” Herta grumbled, crossing her arms.

“Yes.” Elara yawned, nestling into her toys. “Now the stars are quieter.”

Herta exhaled, dragging a hand through her hair. “Well. That was… mortifying.”

Ruan Mei’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes stayed on Elara’s faintly glowing aura. “Not mortifying. Revealing.”

“Revealing?” Herta arched a brow.

“She’s perceptive—beyond what her age should allow. She feels the bond between us. And more than that…” Ruan Mei’s voice lowered, thoughtful. “She resonates with it. The stars respond to her moods.”

Herta frowned, glancing toward the viewport, then back to Elara’s small, curled form. “You think she’s… what, tuning herself to the cosmos like a radio?”

Ruan Mei hesitated before answering. “I think she is the cosmos—or will be. An Aeon, not of life as I once dreamed, but of starlight, of infinity itself.”

Silence hung between them. Herta leaned back, folding her arms, her expression caught between awe and fear. “So… you didn’t just make a child. You made a god.”

Ruan Mei’s gaze softened, following the tiny rise and fall of Elara’s chest. “…No. I made wonder. And it terrifies me.”

Elara’s giggles had quieted, replaced by the soft hum of her play. She stacked her toys into a crooked constellation, humming a tune only she seemed to know. Her eyes drooped between moments, somewhere in that strange liminal space of childlike drowsiness and something far older.

Herta stayed close, perched on the chair by her bedside, arms folded across her chest like a sentry. Every so often she muttered under her breath about “snack drones with death wishes” or “starlight behaving like nosy in-laws.”

Ruan Mei, meanwhile, slipped her tablet onto her lap. The screen flickered to life, glyphs scrolling, the interface demanding identification. With a practiced flick of her stylus, the locked archive bloomed open: N.O.V.A. – New Organic Viable Ascendant.

Her eyes traced the familiar words, but tonight they felt heavier.

Phase 1: Genesis. Viability confirmed.
Phase 2: Resonance. Subject demonstrates external alignment with cosmic stimuli.
Phase 3: Integration. Subject alignment: Cosmic. Predicted Ascension: Aeon of Stars.

Her breath caught. She had seen those words before, but she had always dismissed them as hypothesis, predictive models, possibility at best. Tonight, with Elara’s laughter still echoing in her ears and the stars outside flaring in time with her delight, it felt less like theory and more like inevitability.

A child. Her child. Her creation.

Not just viable. Not just resonant. Becoming.

Her hand trembled, stylus hovering uselessly above the page.

Herta’s voice broke the silence. “You’re brooding again.”

Ruan Mei didn’t look up. “I’m… thinking.”

“You always say that when you’re scaring yourself with research,” Herta muttered, leaning back in her chair. “Spit it out. What did you find?”

Ruan Mei hesitated. Then she turned the tablet, the words stark against the glow of the medbay lights. “It isn’t just resonance. It isn’t just anomaly. The files predicted this. Predicted her.”

Herta’s eyes skimmed the page, her brows furrowing. She whistled low. “…Aeon of Stars? You’re telling me the little gremlin who just demanded we kiss is supposed to become a god?”

Ruan Mei exhaled, her composure cracking at the edges. “Not supposed to. Already becoming. I—” Her voice faltered, soft but raw. “Herta, I thought if I became an Aeon, I could reclaim wonder. Surprise. Life itself. But instead… I created her. She is the wonder I could never grasp.”

For once, Herta was quiet, her sharp wit dulled by the weight of Ruan Mei’s words. She glanced at Elara, curled among her constellation of toys, soft starlight pulsing faintly beneath her skin. A child who giggled, pouted, threw tantrums—yet whose laughter made galaxies flicker.

“She’s not just yours, you know,” Herta said at last, voice gruff but steady. “She’s ours. And if the universe thinks it can just waltz in and make her into something untouchable, it’s going to have to fight me first.”

Ruan Mei’s lips trembled, caught between a smile and grief. “You don’t understand. To ascend as an Aeon means losing the very thing that anchors her. Us. Me. You.”

Herta leaned forward, her hand covering Ruan Mei’s, firm and grounding. “Then we make damn sure she doesn’t lose it. Aeon or not, she’s still Elara. Still our little nova. And I’ll drag the stars down by their tails before I let them take her away.”

Ruan Mei closed her eyes for a moment, the ache in her chest sharp and unfamiliar. Awe. Fear. Wonder. For the first time in too long, she felt something she could not calculate, could not predict.

She looked at Elara, glowing faintly, and whispered under her breath—words meant for no one but herself.

“…You’re the surprise I was looking for.”

Outside the viewport, the star cluster flared again, as if answering her.

The medbay lights had dimmed to their night-cycle glow, soft blues and muted whites casting everything in a hush. Elara’s toys lay scattered in half-formed constellations across the sheets, as though even her play carried the rhythm of the stars.

She’d finally drifted off again, curled on her side, one hand clutching her dragon, the other tangled loosely in Ruan Mei’s sleeve. Her breathing was soft, even—yet every exhale carried the faintest shimmer of lilac light.

Ruan Mei sat close, tablet forgotten on her lap, eyes fixed on the child who was also so much more. The phrase still rang in her mind: Aeon of Stars.

Herta leaned back in her chair, legs kicked out, arms crossed in a way that looked careless but wasn’t. She was watching too, sharp eyes tracking every flicker of light.

For a long time, only the hum of the station filled the room.

Then Elara stirred. Her lips parted, her voice a faint whisper, too soft to be meant for them—too weighty to be anything but true.

“The stars are waiting for me.”

Both women froze.

Ruan Mei’s heart clenched; she wanted to shake her awake, to tell her no, the stars could wait, they could always wait. But she didn’t. She only brushed a strand of hair from Elara’s face, her hand trembling.

Herta muttered, low and unsteady, “She talks in her sleep too much.” But the edge in her voice betrayed her unease.

Outside the viewport, the star cluster pulsed. Not randomly, not like flickering data static—but steady, rhythmic. Breathing with her.

Ruan Mei’s throat tightened. For all her brilliance, for all her certainty, she could not predict what this meant—what it would cost. All she could do was sit there, her hand resting over Elara’s, while the cosmos seemed to answer her child’s dreams.

For the first time in years, she felt overwhelmed by wonder. And terrified by it.

Chapter Text

The station had shifted into morning.
Day-cycle panels warmed the medbay with a soft amber glow, and the ever-present hum of engines deepened into a steadier rhythm, as though the whole place was stretching awake after the night.

Ruan Mei had not slept. Shadows pooled beneath her eyes, but her posture was graceful as always, hands folded in her lap while she kept her vigil by Elara’s bedside. Every so often her gaze drifted to the viewport, where the star cluster pulsed faintly—like it was still breathing with the little girl.

Herta, on the other hand, had succumbed to gravity hours ago. She was slumped in the chair opposite, head tilted back, hair a tangle, a streak of drool shining faintly on her sleeve. The picture of dignity, if dignity had been struck by a meteor and left to rot.

“Do you ever wonder,” Ruan Mei murmured softly, “what ‘ascension’ really means?”

Herta stirred, blinking groggily. “Hnnh. Means I should’ve stayed asleep.” She rubbed at her face and sat up straighter. “What now, Ruan? You’ve been brooding for twelve hours straight.”

Ruan Mei’s gaze lingered on Elara’s sleeping form—small, curled on her side, faint lilac light drifting with each breath. “If she is to become an Aeon… does that mean the child we know ceases to be? Or does she remain, elevated into something greater? My models offer no clarity.”

“Models,” Herta muttered. She stretched, cracking her neck with a sharp pop. “There you go again, talking like a scientist instead of a person.”

Ruan Mei’s lips quirked faintly, though her voice stayed low. “And what does the person in you say?”

“That she’s Elara.” Herta’s tone was simple, final. “She’s ours. And I don’t give a damn what the universe tries to call her. She doesn’t need to be a god if she already makes the stars dance when she laughs.”

The words sank between them, heavy and grounding all at once. Ruan Mei’s throat tightened. “You’d fight inevitability itself for her.”

“I’d fight worse.” Herta leaned forward, eyes sharp now despite the bags beneath them. “I’ll drag the stars down by their tails before I let them take her away.”

For a moment, silence stretched—charged, fragile. Ruan Mei’s hand twitched, aching to reach for hers.

But before she could, a small voice cracked the stillness.

“...Breakfast?”

Both women startled.

Elara was sitting up, hair sticking every which way, dragon clutched tight in her arms. Her eyes were bleary, her voice scratchy from sleep, but her little pout was imperious. “I want toast. Star-shaped toast. With strawberry jam.”

Herta sputtered. “Wh—you—star-shaped—? Do I look like a kitchen drone?”

“Yes,” Elara said solemnly, and then yawned so wide it made her wobble. Without hesitation, she crawled across the sheets and plopped herself right into Herta’s lap, curling against her chest like a sleepy cat.

Ruan Mei’s lips curved despite herself. “Good morning, little nova.”

Elara blinked at her, galaxy eyes cutting sharp through the haze of sleep. “You were talking about me again.”

Both women froze, guilty as thieves caught red-handed.

“Don’t hide it.” Elara burrowed further into Herta’s arms, voice muffled by her dragon. “The stars told me.”

And as she giggled softly, the viewport flickered. Outside, the star cluster brightened—moving, impossibly, in rhythm with the child’s laughter.

Ruan Mei’s breath caught. She knew what it meant.
But Elara only wriggled impatiently and tugged at Herta’s sleeve.

“Toast,” she repeated firmly.

The medbay doors hissed open, and for once, the world beyond did not feel like a place of cosmic dread. It smelled faintly of sterilized air and recycled water, but down the corridor, the promise of the kitchen hub hummed with the warmth of machinery.

Herta carried Elara with both arms, the girl perched against her hip like a koala. Elara clung to her dragon in one hand and Herta’s shirt in the other, her cheek pressed stubbornly against her mommy’s shoulder.

“You’re heavier in the mornings,” Herta muttered, adjusting her grip. “What are you eating in your sleep? Stardust bricks?”

Elara lifted her head just enough to peer up at her. “Maybe.” Then she promptly tucked her face back into Herta’s shoulder, giggling.

Ruan Mei was already at the small galley counter, sleeves rolled back, movements precise as she programmed the cutter to carve slices of bread into star shapes. She was calm, efficient—the perfect picture of “mama at work.”

Elara peeked over Herta’s shoulder, eyes sparkling. “Mama, bigger stars! Big as the real ones!”

Ruan Mei’s lips curved faintly. “If I made them that big, little nova, you wouldn’t be able to finish even one.” She plated the first star-toast and reached for the jam. “But I’ll make sure they’re bright enough for you.”

Herta rolled her eyes, though her arms tightened around Elara just a fraction. “You’re going to spoil her rotten.”

“That is a mother’s duty,” Ruan Mei replied smoothly, not looking up from her task.

Elara hummed happily, rocking slightly in Herta’s arms. Then, in that unsettling way she sometimes had, she whispered, “The stars are humming with you, Mama.”

Ruan Mei’s hand faltered just enough that a smear of jam went crooked. She smoothed it away quickly, hiding the tremor. “Then they must be hungry too.”

Herta glanced down at the top of Elara’s head, frowning. “You’re not allowed to eavesdrop on cosmic phenomena before breakfast.”

Elara only giggled, snuggling closer into her mommy’s arms. “But the stars like me.”

Ruan Mei set the plate down gently, arranging the toast with almost ceremonial care. “Yes,” she said softly. “They do.”

When she finally turned, her eyes lingered on the two of them: Herta holding Elara with mock-exasperation and secret tenderness, Elara glowing faintly even in the plain kitchen light. For a moment, Ruan Mei’s heart clenched with both pride and fear.

Breakfast was only toast and jam, and yet, in the warmth of that little room, it felt like something vast.

It started small.

Elara had been bouncing on the edge of the couch, her dragon clutched in one hand and her half-eaten star-toast in the other, humming nonsense songs to herself. But then the hum of the station’s air vents grew louder. The kitchen lights buzzed faintly against their panels. A tray clattered too sharply when Herta set it aside.

And suddenly, Elara’s bright little hum turned jagged.

She covered her ears with both hands, dragon tumbling to the floor. Her small face scrunched tight, breath coming fast. “Too much,” she whispered, then louder—“Too much, too much, too much!”

Herta froze, halfway to crouching beside her. “Elara?”

But Ruan Mei was already moving, her calm precision turning urgent. She knelt in front of her child, gathering her hands gently away from her ears and cupping them in her own. “Little nova, breathe with me.”

Elara shook her head, eyes shimmering wet. “It’s too loud. It’s too bright. It’s—” Her voice cracked, caught between fury and tears. “Make it stop!”

Ruan Mei didn’t argue. Instead, she pulled Elara carefully into her arms, holding her close, cheek against her hair. Her voice came low and steady, carrying the kind of cadence that could cut through storms.

“Sleep, little one, close your eyes
Your body’s cooling with the night
Let your worries slip away
Tomorrow is a brand new day…”

Herta stood back, chest tight, watching as the words seemed to wrap around Elara like a blanket.

“Shimmering moon and satin sky
Soft wind breathes its lullaby
Your dreams are here to set you free
The dawn will bring you back to me…
The dawn will bring you back to me.”

Elara’s trembling slowed. Her fists, once balled tight against her temples, loosened, curling instead into Ruan Mei’s sleeve. Her breaths lengthened, catching on soft hiccups until finally they matched the rhythm of the song.

By the end, her lashes were damp but fluttering closed, her small body sagging against her mama’s chest.

Ruan Mei rocked her gently, still humming even after the words had faded. She pressed a kiss into Elara’s hair, whispering so faintly only the stars might hear: “Always back to me.”

Herta exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down her face. “You just—” She shook her head, at a loss. “You’re terrifying, you know that? One second she’s a collapsing sun, and the next you’ve got her calm as a field mouse.”

Ruan Mei only smiled faintly, eyes never leaving Elara’s sleeping face. “That is a mother’s duty, too.”

Elara had gone limp in Ruan Mei’s arms, her breaths deep and steady now, cheek pressed against silk.

“Let me.” Herta’s voice was softer than usual, stripped of sarcasm. She crouched close, arms extended.

Ruan Mei hesitated, holding on for one more heartbeat—then carefully shifted Elara into Herta’s waiting arms. The little girl barely stirred, only murmured something incoherent and curled into the new warmth.

“You should rest,” Herta said firmly, as if daring Ruan Mei to argue.

Ruan Mei’s lips parted, a protest already on her tongue—until exhaustion dragged at her shoulders, undeniable. “…Perhaps,” she admitted quietly.

Herta carried Elara through the dim corridor, her steps uncharacteristically gentle. She nudged open the door to the child’s room and tucked her beneath the soft blankets, dragon nestled under one arm. For once, Elara didn’t fight it. She simply sighed, body curling around her toy, faint shimmer pulsing beneath her skin like a star trying to dream.

“Sleep tight, little gremlin,” Herta muttered, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. She lingered just a moment longer before slipping back out and letting the door hiss shut behind her.

Ruan Mei was still awake when she returned, sitting on the edge of the bed in her quarters, tablet abandoned at her side. Her eyes were unfocused, as if staring into calculations that wouldn’t resolve.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Herta said, hands on her hips.

Ruan Mei’s laugh was soft, brittle. “I… couldn’t.”

Without another word, Herta climbed onto the bed and eased her down, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Then I’ll hold you until you can.”

Ruan Mei stiffened only for a second before letting her head rest against Herta’s shoulder, her breath catching as if the very act of surrender was foreign. Slowly, her eyes fluttered shut, body finally giving way to sleep.

Herta stayed awake, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. She pressed her forehead lightly to Ruan Mei’s hair, whispering into the hush of the room:

“You’ve carried her. Let me carry you, too.”

The station hummed softly around them, but for the first time that cycle, it felt quiet.

And in that quiet, Herta held both her girls—one in dreams, one in her arms—and kept the stars at bay.

The room was hushed. Ruan Mei had finally surrendered to sleep, her breathing even at last, her body curled instinctively into the warmth at her side. Herta stayed still, cradling her like she might wake at the slightest shift.

But Herta’s mind was restless. She knew Ruan Mei’s exhaustion wasn’t just from sleepless hours. It was from carrying everything—the science, the fear, the hope. She needed real rest.

With careful movements, Herta reached for her terminal on the nightstand. The glow painted her face pale as she typed, thumb deliberate on each key, eyes flicking back to make sure neither of her girls stirred.

HERTA: Asta. Elara’s asleep right now. Ruan Mei too.
HERTA: Can you keep an eye on her for me? If she wakes up, please look after her a bit. Ruan Mei needs real rest.

She paused, then smirked faintly as she added:

HERTA: She likes star-shaped things. And don’t let her trick you into kissing anyone.

The reply came quickly, Asta’s words warm even through text:

ASTA: Of course. Rest easy. If she wakes, I’ll keep her busy. We’ll look at the stars together.

Herta exhaled slowly, relief unwinding in her chest. She shut the terminal off and returned it to the nightstand, the dark closing gently back around them.

Turning back, she brushed a lock of hair from Ruan Mei’s face, letting her hand linger just a moment longer. Then she lay back fully, her arm firm around the woman beside her.

“Sleep, genius,” she whispered, voice low and steady. “I’ve got her. And I’ve got you.”

The hum of the station steadied, as if agreeing. Beyond the viewport, the stars held their rhythm—quiet, waiting.

For now, it was enough.

Chapter Text

Elara woke slowly, blinking against the low amber lights that had shifted into the station’s evening cycle. For a moment, she lay still, curled around her dragon, listening to the hum of the walls. The air vents breathed like sleepy giants, the floor’s subtle vibration whispering through her toes when she slid off the bed.

Her tummy growled. But more than that, her chest tugged with a feeling she didn’t have words for. Mama. She needed her mama.

Clutching her dragon, she padded to the door and let it hiss open. The corridor beyond was quiet, shadows pooled soft against the steel. She toddled down, determined, hair a tangled halo from her nap.

Halfway down the hall, a familiar voice called gently:
“Elara? Hey, little star.”

Asta stepped out from the junction, tablet in hand, lab coat slightly rumpled from too many hours at consoles. She brightened when she saw her, crouching to Elara’s level. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Elara frowned, puffing out her cheeks. “Looking for Mama.”

Asta blinked. “Oh. Um—your mama is resting right now. Dr. Ruan Mei really needs her sleep.” She gave a conspiratorial smile, trying to make it sound like a game. “How about you come with me instead? We can look at the stars together. I’ll even show you the telescope controls.”

But Elara only hugged her dragon tighter, shaking her head. “No. Mama’s dreaming. I can feel it.” Her little palm pressed against her chest as if to emphasize it, eyes glimmering with a faint lilac shimmer.

The words unsettled Asta more than she wanted to admit. She tried to laugh lightly. “You’re very perceptive, aren’t you? But Ruan Mei really needs her rest. If we wake her, Herta will give me that look, and trust me, I don’t want to be on the wrong end of it.”

Elara tilted her head, considering this gravely, then leaned close and whispered, “The stars get louder when Mama dreams. Do they tell you secrets too?”

Asta’s throat tightened. For a moment, she almost forgot how to smile. Finally, she forced one, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Elara’s ear. “Not the way they talk to you, little one.”

Elara tugged on her sleeve, determined. “I know where she is.”

Before Asta could answer, the girl toddled right up to a nearby door—Ruan Mei’s quarters—and placed her tiny palm flat against it. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she whispered, almost reverent: “She’s right here.”

Asta stood frozen, caught between awe and dread. Herta had told her to keep Ruan Mei sleeping. But the way Elara’s small frame glowed faintly in the dim corridor made her wonder if there was ever really a way to keep mother and child apart.

Elara didn’t wait for permission. The door hissed open with a soft chime, and before Asta could even stammer out a protest, the little girl darted inside—bare feet pattering quick against the floor.

“Elara—wait—!” she hissed, darting after the child.

But Elara had already scrambled up onto the bed, dragon under one arm, determination on her little face. She curled tight against Ruan Mei’s side as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Ruan Mei didn’t stir beyond a faint sigh. Her body, even in sleep, shifted to make space, one arm draping protectively around her daughter without waking.

Asta froze in horror. “Oh stars—Madam Ruan Mei—she was supposed to be—she needs—”

A voice from the other side of the bed cut through her panic.

“She is sleeping,” came the dry, unimpressed murmur. “And she’s doing it just fine.”

Asta nearly dropped her tablet. She whipped around to see Herta propped up against the pillows, hair a chaos of tangles, eyes half-lidded but sharp.

“Madam Herta!” Asta blurted, cheeks burning. “I swear, I tried to stop her. I—I know Lady Ruan Mei needs uninterrupted rest—”

“Mm.” Herta arched an eyebrow, tone flat. “You think the universe itself can stop her when she wants her mama?” She gestured lazily toward Elara, who was already nuzzled deep into Ruan Mei’s silk sleeve, dragon squished between them. “Face it. She wins. Always.”

Asta flailed for words. “But—Lady Ruan Mei—she—”

“She’s still asleep,” Herta interrupted. “And now she’s warmer. Seems efficient to me.”

Elara gave a tiny yawn, settling deeper against her mama. The faint shimmer of lilac light softened until it was barely visible, her breaths evening into sleep once more.

Asta pressed a palm over her face, muffling a groan. “Madam Herta, you are impossible.”

“Yes,” Herta said simply, lying back down. “And you’re loud.”

The corridor hush returned, broken only by the quiet rhythm of Ruan Mei’s breathing and the child pressed against her side.

Herta kept her eyes half-open, just enough to catch the sight of Asta still standing there, wringing her hands. The corner of her mouth tugged upward.

“Relax, Asta,” she murmured. “I’ve got them.”

And in the hush of the chamber, no one argued.

The station’s day-cycle warmed slowly into the chamber, panels shifting from pale indigo into a soft gold glow. The hum of the engines steadied, that familiar pulse of life returning.

Ruan Mei stirred first, though for once she didn’t move. She lay half-curled, cheek pillowed on silk, with Elara nestled against her chest and Herta stretched along her back like a shield. For the first time in too many cycles, her body wasn’t calculating or bracing — it was simply resting.

A soft groan behind her. “Mmnh. Morning already?”

Herta shifted, hair an unholy mess, but her arm tightened instinctively around Ruan Mei’s waist. She cracked one eye open, gaze flicking down to Elara’s small frame bundled between them. The sight made her chest unclench in ways she didn’t like admitting.

Ruan Mei turned carefully in Herta’s arms, her lips curving faintly. “You stayed.”

“As if you’d have let me leave,” Herta muttered, though her tone lacked its usual bite.

Their eyes caught in the early glow — and just for a breath, everything stilled. The hum of the station, the faint shimmer pulsing through Elara’s skin, the weight of everything outside this room — it all held quiet.

Ruan Mei’s fingers brushed against Herta’s wrist. “You are insufferable,” she whispered, voice warm despite the words.

“And you’re impossible,” Herta returned, low.

Neither moved away.

Instead, like two magnets pulled against reason, they closed the distance — soft, tentative, the kind of kiss that tasted of exhaustion and reluctant comfort. It lingered longer than either meant it to, a hush of warmth in the quiet room.

Then—

“You’re kissing again.”

Both women froze.

Elara was blinking up at them, eyes wide but entirely unimpressed, her dragon squished between her hands. Her curls stuck up like little sunbursts from sleep, and she looked so serious it nearly broke them.

Herta coughed, jerking back an inch. “She’s awake.”

“Yes, she is,” Ruan Mei murmured, smoothing Elara’s hair with a trembling hand, her lips still tingling.

Elara squinted at them both, then announced solemnly: “If you kiss before breakfast, you have to make extra toast.”

Herta groaned, throwing her head back into the pillow. “Gremlin rules. Of course.”

Ruan Mei’s laughter was soft, rippling through the golden quiet as Elara wriggled up between them, the universe itself once again orbiting around one small, star-shaped child.

The golden cycle light spilled fuller through the chamber by the time they stirred enough to face the day. Ruan Mei sat at the edge of the bed, smoothing Elara’s hair with patient fingers, while Herta stretched and groaned like she was being forced to carry the entire cosmos on her shoulders.

“I am not walking all the way to the kitchen hub again,” Herta muttered, already pulling her terminal from the nightstand. “One of my units can handle it.”

With a flick of her wrist, a small service drone rolled obediently into the room, blinking lights and all. “Breakfast run,” Herta ordered it, stifling a yawn. “Star-shaped toast, strawberry jam. Two coffees. And…” She glanced down at Elara, arching a brow. “What color sippy cup do you want, gremlin?”

Elara perked up instantly, dragging her dragon into her lap as if he needed to help decide. Her little brow furrowed in concentration. “Mmm… purple. No! Blue. No—sparkly rainbow.”

The robot beeped questioningly.

Herta gave it a flat look. “Don’t even try. Bring the purple one. She’ll live.”

Elara gasped, scandalized. “But—but I said rainbow!”

“You don’t have a rainbow cup,” Herta replied dryly.

Ruan Mei’s lips curved as she smoothed Elara’s sleeve. “Perhaps we can find a way to make one later. But for now, purple will do, won’t it, little nova?”

Elara huffed, clearly weighing the unfairness of the universe against the promise of breakfast. Finally, she slumped dramatically against her dragon. “…Fine. Purple. But Mama owes me sparkles.”

“Noted,” Ruan Mei said gently, pressing a kiss into her curls.

The service drone whirred and zipped out of the room to complete its mission.

Herta flopped back against the pillows, arms crossed, glaring half-heartedly at the ceiling. “I’ve invented space-faring weaponry and an entire army of puppets, and yet my greatest challenge is… a glittery cup.”

Ruan Mei glanced over at her, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “That is also a mother’s duty, Madam Herta.”

Elara giggled, hiding her face against her dragon. “Mommy’s grumpy.”

“Mommy’s exhausted,” Herta corrected, though her hand was already reaching to ruffle Elara’s curls.

The room was warm, humming with ordinary life, and for a little while longer, the stars outside could wait.

The drone eventually returned with its cargo: star-toast, jam, and the purple sippy cup filled with juice. Breakfast had been a glorious mess — crumbs on the blankets, jam smeared suspiciously across Elara’s cheek, and Herta muttering about “domestic sabotage” while Ruan Mei quietly wiped both of them clean.

But peace never lasted long with Elar

“Elara,” Ruan Mei said in that calm, even voice that always meant she had already decided, “it’s time for your bath.”

“No.” Elara clutched her dragon dramatically, scooting back across the bed like she was defending a fortress. “Not again. Baths are evil.”

Herta arched a brow from where she lounged, sipping her coffee. “Didn’t you just get jam in your hair?”

Elara gasped. “It’s not jam! It’s… star jelly.” She pointed an accusing finger. “And you can’t wash away star jelly or the stars will get mad!”

Ruan Mei knelt by the bed, smiling faintly. “Little nova, the stars will forgive us if we make sure you are clean and healthy. You don’t want another fever, do you?”

Elara squirmed, lip wobbling. “But the dragon says he’ll drown.”

Herta snorted. “It’s a stuffed dragon. He’s survived worse.”

“Nooo!” Elara flopped flat on the bed, limbs spread like she was being martyred. “Baths are doom!”

Ruan Mei smoothed her curls gently. “What if Mama holds you the whole time, and Mommy tells you a story while you’re in the water?”

Elara peeked up suspiciously, clearly torn. “…A dragon story?”

“Of course,” Herta said, rolling her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

After a few more rounds of negotiation, they finally coaxed her into the bath — bubbles, dragon perched safely on the counter, Herta narrating a very dramatic tale about a dragon conquering jam rivers.

Later, wrapped in a fluffy towel and wriggling into clean pajamas, Elara was humming again. The crisis of the bath had been forgotten, replaced with the curiosity that always seemed to burn brightest when she was warm and safe.

At the small desk near the viewport, Ruan Mei set out a tablet with stylus and a primer program. The glowing letters floated in the air, bright and colorful.

“Elara,” she said softly, guiding her to the seat, “would you like to learn something new today?”

Elara climbed onto the chair, dragon clutched to her chest. “Like magic?”

“Something even more magical,” Ruan Mei replied. She tapped a letter. “This one is an ‘A.’ It is the start of many words… like Aeon.”

Elara’s galaxy eyes widened. She reached for the stylus clumsily, tracing the letter in the air. “A…” Her tongue poked out as she concentrated.

Herta leaned against the wall, arms crossed but gaze sharp with pride she’d never admit. “Careful, gremlin. If you master letters, you’ll be correcting Mama’s notes before long.”

Elara giggled, trying again. The letter glowed crooked, but it held. “A is for… Asta! And apple! And—” she looked up with sudden certainty— “and me.”

Ruan Mei’s hand stilled, her chest tight. She reached out, smoothing Elara’s curls. “…Yes, little nova. A is for you.”

The letters flickered faintly on the screen — and, as if echoing, the stars outside the viewport shimmered too.

Elara tapped the glowing A again, as if it might change if she pressed hard enough. “A is for Aeon, and me, and… apple juice in my purple cup.” She held up the cup triumphantly, then giggled when a drop of juice dribbled onto the tablet.

Herta swooped in with a cloth before it could short the circuits. “You’re a menace. Do you know how much these systems cost?”

Elara blinked at her, eyes wide, innocent. “One star?”

Ruan Mei laughed softly behind her hand. “A fairer price than most researchers I know.” She tapped the program, shifting the next floating letter into view. “This one is B. Can you say it, little nova?”

“Beeeee.” Elara drew it in the air, except hers looked more like a sideways butterfly. She frowned, then puffed out her cheeks. “It’s not right.”

“Not yet,” Ruan Mei corrected gently, curling her hand over Elara’s to guide her. Together they traced the glowing strokes. “Like this.”

Elara squinted. Her galaxy eyes flared faintly lilac, and for a second the traced B shimmered brighter than the others, as if the stars themselves leaned in to help.

Herta whistled low. “Cheating already. Figures.”

Elara perked up. “B is for… bath.” Then her face screwed up in horror. “No! B is bad.”

Herta choked on her coffee. Ruan Mei’s smile trembled, caught between laughter and tenderness. “Perhaps B can be for book instead. Books are much nicer, yes?”

Elara considered this very seriously, then nodded once. “Books are better. Books don’t try to drown dragons.”

She leaned over the tablet again, scribbling crooked letters, mumbling proudly as she went: “A… B… me…”

Herta pushed off the wall and came closer, peering over her shoulder. “Next you’ll be writing manifestos.”

Elara’s curls bounced as she turned to look up at her. “What’s a manifesto?”

“Something Mommy will regret teaching you,” Herta deadpanned.

Elara giggled so hard she fell sideways into Ruan Mei’s lap, still clutching the stylus like a victory banner. The floating letters bobbed in the air above her, faintly pulsing with the rhythm of her laughter—like even the alphabet wanted to dance with her.

Chapter Text

Elara had declared herself a genius.

Not five minutes into the lesson, she was already standing on the chair, dragon tucked under one arm like an assistant, the stylus waving dangerously in the other. Glowing letters bobbed around her head — crooked, backwards, some upside down — but she announced them with the conviction of an Aeon.

“A! B! … Q!” she declared. “That spells Elara!”

Herta snorted from the bed, coffee mug in hand. “That spells ‘abq.’”

“Nooo,” Elara huffed, curls bouncing as she stomped her foot on the cushion of the chair. “It spells me!”

Ruan Mei, patient as starlight, gently plucked the stylus from her hand before she poked a hole in the ceiling. “It’s a wonderful effort, little nova. But perhaps we should sit again? Letters are easier when you’re not conducting a battle.”

Elara pouted dramatically, flopping back onto the chair like she’d been mortally wounded by education itself. Dragon flopped too, nose-first onto the desk.

Ruan Mei smoothed her curls, smiling faintly. “Let’s try spelling your name together.” She tapped the air and four glowing letters appeared: E L A R A. “See? Five letters.”

Elara leaned forward, eyes wide as galaxies. She reached out and tapped the glowing E. “That’s me?”

“Yes,” Ruan Mei murmured. “This is the start of you.”

Elara giggled, tracing the strokes clumsily with her finger until the E wobbled like it was laughing with her. Then she spun to face Herta, eyes glittering. “Mommy, look! I’m letters!”

Herta arched an eyebrow. “Congratulations. Soon you’ll be writing contracts. Don’t forget to negotiate extra toast.”

Elara gasped like this was the wisest thing she had ever heard. “Yes! Extra toast forever!”

And with that, she scribbled a glowing mess that vaguely resembled an E, then proudly shoved the stylus toward her dragon. “You too. Write your name!”

The dragon, alas, was illiterate.

Elara was determined that the alphabet was a dragon she could conquer.

She perched on her chair like a tiny empress, curls wild, stylus clenched in her fist like a sword. Her stuffed dragon had been promoted to “assistant teacher,” sitting lopsided on the desk, while glowing letters wobbled nervously in the air above them.

“Okay,” she announced solemnly, as if the cosmos itself waited for her proclamation. “We do my name. Because my name is the best.”

Ruan Mei’s lips curved in a soft smile. “Yes, little nova. Let’s start with ‘E.’” She tapped the air, and a graceful glowing Eappeared, steady as starlight.

Elara’s attempt came out more like a backwards comb. She held it up triumphantly anyway. “E!”

Herta, lounging against the wall with her coffee, gave it a long, flat look. “…That’s a fork.”

“It’s an E!” Elara cried, scandalized. She jabbed the stylus at the letter again, so hard it wobbled like it was tipsy. “See? E for Elara!”

“E for egregious,” Herta muttered into her mug.

Ruan Mei smothered a laugh behind her hand and gently adjusted Elara’s grip. “Try again, my star. Not too hard. Letters like to be coaxed, not fought.”

Elara’s brow furrowed. She tried again, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. This time the E looked a little straighter, though one line trailed off like it got distracted halfway.

Ruan Mei kissed the top of her curls. “Perfect.”

“Next!” Elara demanded.

The glowing L appeared. Simple, elegant. Ruan Mei guided her through the two strokes, and Elara managed it with a flourish that nearly poked her dragon in the snout.

“L for lion!” Elara announced. “And lemon! And… um…” She tapped her dragon thoughtfully. “L for loud roar!”

Herta smirked. “L for lunatic.”

“Moo-natic?” Elara repeated, tilting her head.

“No, lu-natic,” Herta corrected, sipping her coffee. “That’s what Mommy is, dealing with you.”

Elara gasped in betrayal. “I’m not a lunna-tick! I’m a star!”

“Exactly,” Herta said dryly. “Stars are lunatics. Exploding constantly, throwing tantrums of fire.”

Elara blinked at her, then broke into delighted giggles. “Yes! I’m a lunna-star!”

Ruan Mei gave Herta a look that promised retribution later, but Elara was already bouncing in her chair.

“Okay okay okay, next!” she chanted.

The glowing A shimmered into being. Elara’s attempt looked like a collapsed tent. She scowled fiercely. “It’s broken.”

Ruan Mei patiently guided her hand again. “Not broken. Just learning.”

Herta peered over. “…That’s definitely a triangle.”

Elara puffed her cheeks. “Triangles are strong. So my A is strong too.”

“Well argued,” Herta admitted, hiding her smirk.

“Then R!” Elara waved her stylus. “What’s R?”

Ruan Mei tapped, conjuring the elegant swoop of R. “This is R. For Ruan Mei.”

Elara squealed in delight, tracing it so fast her version looked like a lightning bolt. “R is for Mama! And for… Rrrrroar!” She growled loudly, making her dragon bob dramatically.

“R is also for rebellion,” Herta added casually.

Ruan Mei pinched the bridge of her nose. “Herta—”

“What?” Herta said, unrepentant. “Better she learns now. She’s destined to stage a coup sooner or later.”

Elara gasped, eyes sparkling. “Ree-bell-yawn! What’s that?!”

“It means overthrowing your oppressors,” Herta replied smoothly, smirking over her mug.

Elara blinked. “What’s an oppress-or?”

“You’ll know when your mama tells you it’s bath time,” Herta said.

Ruan Mei closed her eyes in prayer. “Aeons give me patience.”

But Elara was thrilled, bouncing in her chair. “R is for roar and re-belly-yawn and Mama! Best letter ever!”

Finally, the last A floated into view. Elara stared at it gravely, then poked it. “…It’s back again.”

“Yes,” Ruan Mei said gently. “Your name begins and ends with A.”

Elara scrunched her nose. “That’s silly. Names shouldn’t have the same letter twice. That’s cheating.”

“Then you are cheating,” Herta said, smirking. “Makes sense.”

Elara gasped like she’d just been crowned Empress of Mischief. “Yes! I’m the best cheater ever!” She scribbled the final letter — another crooked triangle — and then jumped to her feet on the chair, arms flung wide.

“E! L! A! R! A!” she shouted. “That’s me! That’s my name! I win the alphabet!”

The glowing letters bobbed around her like confetti, her lilac shimmer pulsing in time with her laughter.

Herta muttered into her mug, “Alphabet defeated in one battle. History will never recover.”

Ruan Mei just shook her head, though her eyes were shining as she caught Elara mid-bounce and lifted her down from the chair. “Yes, little nova. You are the brightest letter of them all.”

Elara curled against her, still giggling. “Next we learn dragon’s name. Then Mommy’s. Then Mama’s. Then… everything!”

Herta groaned. “If she learns my name, she’ll start forging requisition forms.”

Elara perked up instantly. “What’s ree-quiz-shin?”

Ruan Mei laughed helplessly against Elara’s curls, while Herta smirked wickedly. “Oh, don’t worry, gremlin. I’ll teach you.”

Elara was still chanting her name like a victory anthem when Ruan Mei shifted her gently off the chair.

“That is enough letters for today, little nova,” she said, smoothing down the curls that refused to obey. “You’ve worked very hard. It’s time for a break.”

Elara gasped, clutching her dragon. “Break means snack, right?”

“Snack,” Ruan Mei confirmed, with a faint, indulgent smile.

Herta set her mug down with a clink. “Snack for her, or for you?”

“For all of us,” Ruan Mei said serenely, already reaching for the service panel. “Some fruit, perhaps. And warm tea.”

“Don’t forget the toast,” Elara piped up, bouncing on her toes. “Mommy promised toast!”

Herta groaned. “I didn’t promise infinite toast. You can’t make contracts with breakfast food.”

“Yes I can!” Elara cried, scandalized. “It’s the law!”

Herta gave her the flattest look imaginable. “You don’t even know what a law is.”

“Do too!” Elara insisted. She clutched her dragon close and added, with the solemnity of a judge: “Law means Mommy and Mama have to do what I say.”

Ruan Mei’s laugh spilled out soft and helpless, and even Herta’s mouth twitched.

The service drone arrived with a little tray: sliced fruit, a plate of star-shaped toast, two mugs of steaming tea—and, gleaming among the plain dishes, a glittery rainbow sippy cup already filled with water. Its surface shimmered like liquid starlight, scattering color across the table.

Elara gasped so loudly she nearly toppled over. “It’s here! My sparkly cup!” She seized it with both hands, hugging it to her chest as if it were a crown jewel. “Now I can drink like a dragon queen!”

Herta arched a brow and pulled one of the plain glasses of water from the tray. “Meanwhile, Mama and I get boring clear cups. Unfair system.”

Ruan Mei accepted her own glass with a small smile. “It’s only fitting. Our nova deserves something a little more… cosmic.”

Elara was already slurping happily, feet kicking in midair. She set the cup down only to wave her toast triumphantly. “Snack time! I win again!”

“Gremlin logic,” Herta muttered, though she was already sipping her tea.

Ruan Mei settled Elara onto her lap with practiced ease, setting the dragon beside her. “Since you’ve learned your name today, perhaps Mama can read you a story while you eat. A reward for your hard work.”

Elara’s eyes lit up brighter than the viewport stars. “A dragon story?”

“Always,” Ruan Mei promised.

Herta leaned back, glass of water in hand, watching the two of them. “Here we go again. Jam rivers, bubble kingdoms, heroic dragons…”

“Heroic dragons who don’t drown in baths,” Elara corrected sternly through a mouthful of toast, lifting her rainbow cup for emphasis.

Ruan Mei kissed the top of her head, already pulling up a slim, glowing datapad. “Yes, little nova. Dragons who conquer even star jellies.”

Elara hummed happily, curling closer against her as the words began to flow — soft, rhythmic, wrapping around her as surely as the warmth of the tea, the plain glasses of water, and the shimmer of her sparkly rainbow cup.

And for a little while, all was still.

Elara settled into Ruan Mei’s lap, her rainbow sippy cup clasped tightly in one hand, the dragon hugged in the other. The soft hum of the station and the warm glow of the lights made everything feel gentle, suspended.

Ruan Mei opened the glowing datapad, and began in a voice both calm and adventurous:

“In the quaint village of Green Hollow, nestled between rolling hills and ancient forests, lived a young musician named Lily…”Her words flowed like a lullaby as Elara listened, wide-eyed, toast crumbs dotting her purple pajamas.

Lily played her violin under a big oak tree, her melodies so sweet they made flowers bloom and birds join in song. One day, a magical fog shimmered into the village — luminous and soft — and it began to dance and swirl to her tune.

Entranced, Lily followed the glowing mist into a hidden glade. There, she found Eldrin — a dragon with emerald-green scales and eyes like sparkling stars. Though he looked majestic, he was silent, listening intently to Lily’s song.

When Lily greeted him, Eldrin replied in a deep, soothing voice:

“Welcome, little one. I am Eldrin, guardian of the Enchanted Glade. Your music has awakened me. I have been in a long slumber, waiting for someone with a pure heart.”

He revealed that he’d been cursed by an enchantress until someone could play the Dragon’s Song—a melody of harmony that could break the spell. Lily, fearless and curious, agreed to help.

Her quest sent her across the land to collect the magical notes:

• The Note of the Forest, guarded by a wise old owl in the Forest of Whispers, came after Lily solved the riddle about fire. The owl rewarded her with a glowing green leaf.

• The Note of the Sky, hidden at the highest peak, was delivered by a falcon after she solved a riddle about a cloud. The falcon dropped a shimmering blue feather.

• The Note of the Earth, hidden near a pond, was guarded by a wise tortoise who challenged her with a riddle about a map. She answered correctly and received a small golden pebble.

With all three notes, Lily returned and played the Dragon’s Song. Eldrin roared triumphantly, stretching his wings, and the enchanted mist cleared—harmony was restored.

The story closed on a soft, victorious note:

“Thank you, brave Lily,” Eldrin said. “You’ve freed me and restored balance. The Dragon’s Song will always be a part of you now.”

Ruan Mei paused, looking down at Elara, who hugged her rainbow cup and poked her dragon gently.

Elara breathed out, full and dreamy. “Mama… I want to find magical notes too,” she murmured. Her galaxy-bright eyes glowed faintly in the lamplight.

Herta, sipping her plain water with a small smile, met Ruan Mei’s eyes and shrugged, half-mischievous, half-wondering what their nova might do next.

Ruan Mei kissed Elara’s curls. “One day, little nova. But for now… you’ve already found something magical: your name, your sparkles, your story.” She tapped the datapad to close the page, the soft glow dimming but leaving warmth in the air.

Elara curled tighter, dragon cuddled in her arms, rainbow cup glittering in the lamp glow.

And there — in the hush of story’s end, the hum of the station, and the sparkle of a child’s imagination — their little world held its peaceful magic.

Elara’s dragon sagged sideways in her arms, nearly slipping off her lap, but she caught it and pressed it to her chest like a talisman. Her rainbow cup glittered beside her, abandoned but proud on the table.

She tilted her head against Ruan Mei’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded, and began humming. It wasn’t Lily’s melody exactly — more a patchwork of notes, lilting and uneven, rising when she thought of dragons soaring, falling when she thought of them resting in caves. A small, dreamy tune that only she could have invented.

Herta set her empty glass down, watching with a faint crease between her brows. “That’s not how the song went.”

“It’s better,” Elara whispered, not even opening her eyes. “Mine has sparkles in it.”

Ruan Mei’s hand brushed through Elara’s hair, smoothing the curls as her hum grew softer. “It does,” she agreed. “It has your own magic in it.”

The hum of the station seemed to soften around them, as though leaning in to listen. For a moment, even the faint flicker of the viewport stars seemed to pulse with her rhythm.

Elara yawned, long and squeaky, then mumbled, “When I grow up, I’ll be like Lily… but with a dragon cup. And Mommy and Mama can come with me.”

Herta snorted. “Convenient. You do the music, we do the snacks?”

Elara giggled sleepily, already curling tighter into Ruan Mei’s lap. “Yes… Mommy’s good at snacks…” Her voice dwindled into a whisper, the last of the melody fading as her breathing slowed.

By the time Ruan Mei laid the datapad aside, Elara was nearly asleep, humming only in fragments, her little hands still curled around her dragon and her glittering cup like anchors in a vast sea.

And the station, for once, felt like it was humming along with her.

Elara’s hum trailed off into the smallest sigh, her dragon slipping from her grasp. Her glittery rainbow cup stood proudly on the table, catching stray starlight like it was keeping watch.

“She’s out,” Herta murmured, setting her glass aside. Carefully, she leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to Ruan Mei’s forehead — warm, fleeting, but full of something unspoken. “You’ll overheat keeping her like that. Let me.”

Ruan Mei’s smile was soft, touched with surprise. She loosened her hold as Herta slipped her arms beneath Elara. The little one stirred faintly, mumbling about “sparkle dragons” but never waking, head tucked against Herta’s shoulder as if it were the most natural place in the universe.

Herta carried her across the room with unhurried steps, laying her gently onto her bed. She tucked the dragon plush against her chest, brushed a curl off her cheek, and pulled the blanket up with more care than she’d admit. Elara wriggled once, then stilled, lips parted in sleep.

Ruan Mei stood a moment longer, watching the slow rise and fall of their daughters breath. A glow flickered faintly at her fingertips — not magic, but thought, calculation, the weight of questions pressing for answers.

“I’ll be in the lab,” she said quietly, eyes still on Elara. “Just for a while. There’s… something I need to test.”

Herta glanced back, one eyebrow lifting. “Of course you do.” She smirked faintly, but there was no bite in it. “Don’t stay too long. Or I’ll send a bot to drag you back.”

Ruan Mei’s laugh was low, almost distracted. “You worry too much.”

She leaned down, kissed Elara’s curls once, then straightened and slipped out of the room — the soft click of the door leaving only the hum of the station and the steady rhythm of Elara’s breathing.

Herta stayed a moment longer, arms crossed, watching both sleeping child and glittering cup as if they might start glowing again at any second.

And when she finally sat down, it was with a sigh that held equal parts exhaustion and something warmer — the weight of being part of this strange, fragile little constellation.

Chapter Text

The lab was quiet except for the steady pulse of machinery and the soft crackle of corrupted files stuttering across the console. Ruan Mei leaned close to the screen, her brow furrowed, fingers trailing lightly over the fractured data streams.

Then—warmth. Herta’s lips pressed against hers, sudden and unannounced, and Ruan Mei startled before melting into it, answering with equal fire. Their kiss deepened, lingering longer than either intended. Ruan Mei sighed into Herta’s mouth, a laugh escaping against her lips.

“You always do this when I’m working,” she murmured, breathless.

“You always look better distracted,” Herta countered, sliding onto the chair’s armrest and tugging her closer.

This time, Ruan Mei didn’t resist. Their mouths met again, slow and hungry, the kiss spilling into something far more reckless. Herta’s hand cupped her jaw; Ruan Mei tangled fingers in her hair, both of them losing themselves in the quiet, stolen heat. For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist.

Until the console chimed sharply, pulling Ruan Mei’s attention back to the fractured screen. Reluctantly, she tore herself away, lips flushed, eyes still sparkling. Herta smirked but leaned in anyway, brushing another kiss against her cheek as if claiming territory.

Ruan Mei exhaled, steadying her thoughts, and then she saw it—buried beneath layers of corruption. The letters formed haltingly, sputtering in and out of static until they finally aligned:

[The Path of the Luminous Nova]

Her chest tightened. “Not Harmony. Not Preservation. Not even Remembrance,” she whispered. “Something new. Something unwritten.”

She thought of Elara—her lilac glow, the way her laughter filled entire rooms, the impossible strength behind those small hands. A child, yes, but also a star waiting to be born.

“This belongs to her,” Ruan Mei breathed, reverent. She let her lips shape the truth, a secret too heavy for silence. “Elara… the Luminous Nova.”

Before Herta could answer, a sharp knock echoed at the lab door. The sound snapped the air taut. Both women froze, the warmth of their closeness still clinging to them as they exchanged quick, guilty glances.

Ruan Mei fingers still hovering over the console, mind split between the fragile glow of Elara’s Path and the warmth lingering at her shoulder. Herta, however, didn’t move an inch. She perched lightly on the armrest, her gaze dark with mischief, lips still tingling from their recent kiss.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ruan Mei whispered, attempting composure, though her cheeks were flushed and her pulse thundering. Her eyes flicked away, scanning the chaotic data streams, but she couldn’t stop her fingers from brushing Herta’s wrist.

Herta leaned closer, breath ghosting over Ruan Mei’s ear. “I’m not done with you,” she murmured, low, dangerous, teasing. Her words carried weight, promise, and an unspoken claim. A shiver ran down Ruan Mei’s spine despite herself. “We’ll resume this later,” Herta added, smirking faintly, letting the words hang in the air like a spark waiting to ignite.

Ruan Mei’s lips parted, half to protest, half to sigh, her composure crumbling. Heat pooled in her chest, spreading to her fingertips as she glanced at Herta, a mix of scolded and smitten painted across her features. The glow from the console reflected in their eyes, pulsing gently alongside the stolen tension between them.

Another knock—sharper, more insistent—made both of them flinch. Ruan Mei tore her gaze from Herta’s, straightening slowly, her hair falling like a curtain over her flushed cheeks. Herta didn’t budge; she merely leaned against her, playful and unwavering, letting her fingers trace the small of Ruan Mei’s back in quiet defiance of the interruption.

Ruan Mei let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Later,” she repeated softly, almost to herself, echoing Herta’s promise, before finally summoning enough control to turn toward the door. Yet even as she moved, the warmth pressed against her shoulder, the memory of Herta’s whisper, and the echo of those words—I’m not done with you—lingered, a private fire hidden just beneath the lab’s sterile glow.

The knock came again, deliberate this time, forcing both Ruan Mei and Herta to separate just enough to regain some composure. Herta smirked faintly, letting her fingers trail one last time over Ruan Mei’s arm before sliding down, clearly unwilling to fully release her.

Ruan Mei straightened fully, shoulders squared, taking a deep breath as if preparing for a confrontation she wasn’t entirely ready for. “It’s… probably Asta,” she murmured, though her tone lacked conviction.

The door hissed slightly as it slid open, revealing a small, hovering maintenance drone, its optical sensor blinking in an almost apologetic rhythm. “Miss Ruan Mei… Herta… routine systems check and scheduled maintenance notice,” it buzzed.

Herta raised a brow, leaning casually against the console. “Oh? And here I thought it was someone delivering more excuses for me to ignore work.” Her lips twitched in amusement, eyes darting toward Ruan Mei. “Lucky for you, the interruption isn’t… organic.”

Ruan Mei exhaled, a small laugh escaping despite herself, her fingers hovering over the console again. “I suppose we should let it through… or at least acknowledge it.” She tapped the screen, letting the drone access the station systems with a quiet click.

Once the drone floated away, Herta smirked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Well,” she murmured, stepping closer, voice low, intimate, “now that the distraction’s gone… we continue later, right?”

Ruan Mei’s pulse quickened, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks. She bit her lip, torn between professional duty and the private heat still lingering from before. “…Yes,” she whispered, the single word heavy with promise.

For a moment, the lab hummed quietly again, the console glow reflecting in both their eyes—silent witnesses to the unspoken fire, the Aeon mysteries still waiting to unfold, and the promise that later would be worth the wait.

The lab settled into a quieter rhythm after the drone departed, the soft hum of machinery filling the spaces between them. Ruan Mei returned to the console, eyes fixed on the corrupted files that had revealed The Path of the Luminous Nova. Her fingers moved quickly, coaxing fragmented data streams into legible form, light from the screens dancing across her focused expression.

Herta leaned against the edge of the desk, chin resting on her hand, watching with a faint smirk. “You’re so serious,” she murmured, voice teasing. “Like you’re about to discover the secrets of the universe or something.”

“I might be,” Ruan Mei shot back, though her tone was calm, measured, betraying the quiet thrill of discovery. “This Path… it’s unlike any other. Look—abilities, milestones, stages… even the moral philosophy embedded in it. It emphasizes empathy, creativity, joy… the foundation of an Aeon built to grow alongside others, not above them.”

Herta hummed softly, sliding closer until her knee brushed Ruan Mei’s. “Sounds like someone I know,” she whispered, lips close to Ruan Mei’s ear, sending a subtle shiver down her spine. “Bright, stubborn… a little chaotic, but impossible not to love.”

Ruan Mei’s pulse quickened, her fingers pausing mid-scroll. She stole a glance at Herta, lips twitching with suppressed amusement. “Yes,” she said, voice low, “and that someone already exists. Her… she’s the template, and yet she’s entirely unique.”

The two sat there, one absorbed in data, the other in quiet mischief, the air between them charged with tension and warmth. Ruan Mei scrolled further, uncovering fragments of ability stages: Spark, Glow, Radiance… each annotated with trials of patience, trust, and wonder.

Herta leaned back slightly, letting her hand brush against Ruan Mei’s knee in casual intimacy. “Patience, trust, wonder…” she repeated softly, echoing the stages. “Sounds like a lot of work. Lucky for her, she’s got you to guide her. And me… well, mostly me for the chaos part.”

Ruan Mei laughed quietly, eyes returning to the screen, tracing the glowing lilac annotations. “The Luminous Nova… it’s perfect,” she whispered, almost to herself. Then, as if realizing she hadn’t spoken it aloud yet, she added with reverence, “Elara… she’s going to surpass even this blueprint.”

Herta’s grin was quiet but sharp, her hand settling closer, just enough to remind Ruan Mei of their unfinished moment. “And we’ll be there for the… extracurricular lessons,” she murmured, teasing, voice low, warm, and loaded with promise.

The lab hummed around them, screens glowing with the secrets of a child yet to fully awaken, and two women suspended in the quiet intimacy of shared purpose—and something infinitely more electric.

The lab was quiet now, the hum of machines a soft backdrop to the lingering heat between them. Herta’s bed had become their sanctuary, the sheets tangled and warm beneath their bodies. Ruan Mei lay half atop Herta, skin slick with sweat, blankets draped loosely over them so that neither could be seen completely, the fabric clinging in damp folds.

Herta’s arm curled around Ruan Mei, holding her close, fingers tracing patterns along her back and waist. Ruan Mei pressed against her, forehead resting just under Herta’s chin, eyes half-lidded, breath still uneven from the heat and intensity of what had passed. “You’re… warm,” she murmured softly, lips brushing the sensitive skin at the base of Herta’s throat.

Herta let out a low, satisfied hum, tilting her head to press a lingering kiss to Ruan Mei’s temple. “You too,” she whispered, voice husky, playful. “Sticky and sweaty… perfect.” Her hand slid over Ruan Mei’s hip, tugging her closer, as if to remind her that they weren’t done even when they had stopped.

Ruan Mei shivered against her touch, lips brushing along Herta’s collarbone, trailing small, teasing kisses. “We… shouldn’t be… like this,” she said, voice breathless, though the words had no conviction. “But… I don’t want to stop.”

Herta chuckled, low and throaty, pressing her lips to Ruan Mei’s again, slow, deliberate, tasting and teasing. “Then don’t,” she murmured, fingers playing through damp strands of hair sticking to her skin, thumb brushing the soft curve of her cheek. “We’ve got the blankets, the bed… and all the time in the world.”

Ruan Mei let herself melt into her, sweat slick against sweat, warmth pressed to warmth, bodies moving slightly in unconscious rhythm. Every brush of skin, every touch, was electric, leaving them tingling, hearts racing even as their breathing began to slow. Herta’s hand traced lazy patterns along Ruan Mei’s back, lingering at the spots that made her shiver, while Ruan Mei’s fingertips tangled in the curve of Herta’s neck, drawing her closer.

“Your touch… always,” Ruan Mei whispered, voice low and soft, “it makes everything else fade away.” Her lips brushed along Herta’s shoulder, trailing down in gentle, intimate caresses.

Herta’s laugh was a breathy, warm sound, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Ruan Mei’s head. “And yours… makes me forget the rest of the station,” she murmured. “Right here, right now… it’s just us.” Her fingers curved around Ruan Mei’s side, thumb brushing along damp skin, careful yet demanding, a reminder of the fire still alive between them.

They stayed like that, tangled beneath the blankets, skin slick with sweat, hearts gradually slowing, breaths mingling. Occasionally, one would murmur a soft word, a name, or a teasing promise. Herta’s lips found Ruan Mei’s again, fleeting kisses along the jaw, the temple, the collarbone, while Ruan Mei pressed against her, every inch of contact electric, grounding, comforting.

“Later,” Ruan Mei whispered, voice soft but full of promise, echoing their unspoken agreement.

Herta smiled, lips brushing along her temple. “Much later,” she agreed, voice low, satisfied. “For now… we stay like this. Sweat, warmth, blankets… just us.”

And so they did. Naked beneath the cocoon of blankets, glistening with sweat from their private fire, hearts tethered together, breathing slowly syncing, sharing quiet murmurs and gentle touches. Outside, the station hummed softly, oblivious to the sanctuary they had carved, while inside, they existed only for each other, cocooned in warmth, intimacy, and the quiet, steady promise of more moments to come.

Sunlight slanted gently through the viewport, dusting the room with soft, golden warmth. The hum of the station was steady, comforting, a reminder that the world outside still existed—but for the moment, Herta and Ruan Mei stayed wrapped in the cocoon of blankets, bodies still warm, sweaty from the night’s private fire.

Ruan Mei’s head rested on Herta’s chest, breath even but still heavy from the night, fingers lazily tracing the curve of her waist. Herta’s arm draped over her, hand resting against Ruan Mei’s back, thumb brushing soothing circles along damp, silky skin. The sheets were tangled, half-clinging to them, a messy shield of intimacy hiding what had happened from the waking station.

From her own little room down the hallway, Elara stirred. Somehow, her small curiosity was too strong to resist. Quietly, she padded along the corridor, dragon plush in hand, and gently pushed open the door to Herta’s room. Sunlight caught her hair, curls bouncing as she tiptoed forward. Without hesitation, she climbed onto the bed, snuggling in between Ruan Mei and Herta, pressing herself against Ruan Mei’s side.

Ruan Mei stirred at the sudden weight, blinking up at the sunlight, hair sticking damply to her cheeks. “Good morning, little nova,” she whispered, voice soft, hoarse from sleep and last night’s exertions.

Elara’s galaxy-bright eyes immediately locked onto Ruan Mei, but then widened slightly as she noticed the tangled blankets and the faint glimmer of sweat along both women’s skin. Her small hands gripped Ruan Mei’s arm, tugging gently. “Mama… why are you… um… naked?” she asked cautiously, her curiosity completely overriding any sense of embarrassment.

Ruan Mei’s eyes widened, and she glanced toward Herta, who was propped slightly on one elbow, a lazy smirk tugging at her lips. “Elara…” Ruan Mei began, voice warm, careful, “that’s… uh… something grown-ups sometimes do. Nothing for little novas to worry about.”

Elara tilted her head, brow furrowed, dragon plush clutched tightly. “But… you and Mommy… all tangled… sweaty…?” she murmured, voice full of wonder and a little confusion. “Are you… hurt?”

Herta laughed quietly, reaching out to ruffle Elara’s curls. “No, little star,” she said, voice gentle but playful. “We’re fine. Very… fine.” She shifted slightly, letting the blanket settle more comfortably over their forms. “That’s what grown-ups do when they want to be… close. Very close.”

Ruan Mei exhaled, running a hand over Elara’s back. “It’s nothing scary. Just… a special hug, a special warmth we share.” Her voice was soft, patient, infused with love, trying to translate something complex into terms Elara could understand. “Just like you hug your dragon… we hug each other.”

Elara blinked, small mind whirring as she processed the concept. “Oh…” she whispered, nodding slowly. “Hug… big hug. Like… dragon hug?”

Herta grinned, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Elara’s forehead. “Exactly, little nova. Big, warm hugs. But for us, hugs can be… extra warm.”

Elara’s eyes sparkled with understanding, though faint curiosity lingered. “Can… I hug too?” she asked, snuggling herself against Ruan Mei’s side, pressing the dragon plush between them for extra caution.

Ruan Mei laughed softly, wrapping an arm around Elara. “Always,” she murmured, smiling down at her little star. “Come here, my Luminous Nova. We’ll share our warmth… just like last night, but… different.”

Herta shifted, pulling the blankets tighter over all three of them, letting the warmth of their skin and the quiet comfort of sweat and proximity cocoon them together. Outside, the station hummed steadily, oblivious to the small constellation they had created—a mother, a mama, and their little star, sharing warmth, safety, and quiet intimacy in the early glow of morning.

For a moment, all else was forgotten. The world outside could wait. Here, wrapped in blankets, still glistening from the night, the three of them existed only for each other, hearts beating in a slow, shared rhythm, connected not just by blood and care, but by the quiet, undeniable magic of closeness.

Chapter Text

The sunlight spilling through the viewport painted everything in soft gold. Warmth clung to the tangled blankets, to the lingering sheen of sweat, to the small constellation of bodies tucked against one another.

Elara had burrowed firmly into Ruan Mei’s side, dragon plush squished between them like a third guardian. Her curls tickled Ruan Mei’s chin, and her little legs were sprawled carelessly across Herta’s stomach.

“Mm,” Elara murmured, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “Can we have breakfast now?” Her voice was scratchy from sleep, but already full of impatient energy.

Ruan Mei smoothed a hand over her hair, coaxing the wild curls down. The fondness in her smile was impossible to hide. “Of course, little nova. But first…” She hesitated, catching the amused tilt of Herta’s lips out of the corner of her eye, “…you need to go to the bathroom. Brush your teeth, wash your face—make yourself fresh for the day.”

Elara blinked, nose scrunching. “Right now?”

“Yes,” Ruan Mei said gently, but with enough firmness that Elara didn’t dare test her. “Take your dragon if you want. We’ll be right behind you.”

There was a beat of suspicion, but Elara clutched her plush like a knight guarding a relic and nodded. She climbed down, tiny feet pattering against the cold floor, curls bouncing as she shuffled toward the door. The panel hissed open and shut again, leaving the room wrapped in silence.

For the first time since dawn, it was just the two of them.

Ruan Mei released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She pulled the blanket higher against her chest, trying to shake the warmth of fluster that spread across her face. “We should… get dressed before she comes back.”

Herta smirked at that, eyes glinting with mischief. She leaned in without hesitation, catching Ruan Mei’s lips in a kiss that was far too heated for the quiet morning. The scientist gasped softly against her, startled by the sudden press of mouth on mouth, but melted almost immediately, clutching the sheets like they were the only anchor she had.

Herta didn’t stop at a kiss. Her free hand slipped under the loosened blanket, skimming warm skin until it cupped one of Ruan Mei’s breasts. Her thumb brushed slowly, deliberately, teasing the sensitive peak in slow circles. The touch sent a shiver spiraling through Ruan Mei’s body, her breath hitching against Herta’s lips.

“H-Herta—” she started, her protest catching in her throat as Herta deepened the kiss. Their mouths moved together in a rhythm that was both familiar and still burning with newness.

“Shhh,” Herta murmured between kisses, her voice low and threaded with playful danger. She nipped at Ruan Mei’s bottom lip before pulling back just enough to whisper against her mouth. “Later. We’ll have more time later.”

Her hand lingered for a long, tantalizing heartbeat before releasing, leaving Ruan Mei flushed, breathless, and faintly trembling.

Herta swung her legs off the bed as if nothing had happened, stretching with catlike satisfaction, her hair mussed, lips faintly red from the kiss. The blanket slid off her shoulders, exposing pale skin streaked with faint, blooming marks—soft violets and pinks scattered across her collarbone and down the curve of her neck. Each one was a secret signature, a memory from the night before, painted by Ruan Mei’s lips and teeth when restraint had finally snapped.

She looked every bit the picture of smug confidence, unabashed and unbothered by the evidence on her skin. “Come on, scientist. Clothes on. Unless you’d rather greet breakfast like this.”

Ruan Mei froze, eyes flicking helplessly to those marks. Heat rushed to her cheeks in a wave, vivid and uncontrollable. “H-Herta!” she hissed, clutching the blanket tighter to herself as though it could shield her from the scandalous sight. “You can’t just—walk around like that!”

Herta only smirked wider, tilting her head so the light caught along her neck, as if daring Ruan Mei to look away. “Why not?” she purred, voice dripping with amusement. “I think it suits me. A little… reminder.”

Ruan Mei groaned softly, hiding her burning face in her hand. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Herta countered smoothly, unbothered as she bent to pick up her discarded clothes, moving deliberately slowly, her skin and the marks on it still fully in view.

Ruan Mei’s blush deepened as she dragged the blanket tighter around herself, muttering under her breath—half scolding, half adoring. The hum of the station filled the silence between them, steady and indifferent, as though the entire world wasn’t balanced precariously on the edge of discovery, secrecy, and the fire that only they could ignite in one another.

Ruan Mei froze halfway through tugging on her blouse. Her fingers stuttered over the fabric as her gaze was helplessly drawn to those marks. “Herta…” she whispered, her voice teetering between scolding and utterly flustered awe. “You—at least try to cover them.”

“Why?” Herta smirked, tilting her head so a particularly vivid bruise on her neck caught the morning light. She stood, unabashed, letting Ruan Mei’s eyes follow the constellation of evidence she wasn’t trying to hide. “I like them. They’re proof.”

Ruan Mei pressed her lips together, cheeks warming. She looked away, pretending to busy herself with smoothing her skirt, but her traitorous gaze flicked back, again and again. Herta noticed every slip. Stepping closer, she brushed her hair aside with deliberate grace, putting the marks on her throat fully on display, then leaned in to steal a kiss that tasted faintly of challenge.

“You’re impossible,” Ruan Mei murmured, breath catching when Herta’s hand dared to wander, brushing her waist before retreating in that teasing, maddening way. Her composure cracked further when Herta smirked down at her, utterly unapologetic in her display.

Before Ruan Mei could gather her wits enough to retort, the sound of water splashing in the bathroom reminded them that Elara wouldn’t stay distracted forever. With a last lingering kiss and a smug grin, Herta finally pulled away, pulling on her clothes at an infuriatingly slow pace. Ruan Mei, still flushed and stealing glances she refused to admit to, could only shake her head and mutter, “You’ll be the end of me.”

Herta’s smirk deepened. “That’s the plan.”

Elara’s happy humming from the bathroom was just enough to mask the silence that had fallen between them. Ruan Mei tried to keep her focus—buttoning her blouse, smoothing her hair, regaining the neatness she always carried. But her gaze betrayed her. Again and again, it flicked toward Herta, sprawled in the light like a painting, pale skin littered with the marks of last night’s passion.

Ruan Mei told herself not to look. Told herself she had no time. Yet, without thinking, her hand lifted. The scientist’s fingers brushed along Herta’s collarbone, tracing one of the darker bruises blooming there. She meant to pull back immediately, but Herta’s soft inhale rooted her in place.

Before she knew it, Ruan Mei leaned in. Her lips pressed gently to the vivid mark at Herta’s neck, lingering with a tenderness that startled even herself. The gesture was not clinical, not cautious—purely instinct, purely hers.

The satisfaction that curved Herta’s mouth afterward was downright dangerous. “So you do like them,” she purred, hand sliding up Ruan Mei’s back as if to anchor the moment. Ruan Mei startled, cheeks flooding pink, and she quickly pulled away, half-turning as though the motion had never happened.

“You’ll twist this however you want, won’t you?” she murmured, fussing with her sleeve as if it could hide her slip.

“Obviously,” Herta said, entirely unapologetic, eyes glinting with mischief. She leaned in just long enough to steal a kiss from Ruan Mei’s parted lips before the sound of running water stopped and the bathroom door clicked. Both of them straightened instantly, masks slipping back into place.

By the time Elara padded out with her cup clutched in both hands, the two women looked perfectly composed. Whatever heat had lingered between them was tucked neatly away, replaced by their softer roles as her mama and mommy.

Soon, the quiet hum of the station filled with a new rhythm—the clink of dishes, the faint hiss of a pan, the soft chatter of a morning routine settling into place. Ruan Mei had drifted toward the kitchen alcove, sleeves rolled back as she prepared breakfast with her usual precision, her eyes scanning each ingredient to make sure it was safe for Elara, sneaking little smiles at Elara’s excited kicks under the table.

Across the room, Herta had her own project: Elara. Seated between her knees, the little girl wriggled like a restless kitten while Herta patiently combed through her fine strands of hair. “Stop squirming, spark,” Herta said with feigned sternness, deft fingers starting on a fishtail braid. “Do you want me to make you look like a disheveled starlight goblin instead?”

Elara giggled, kicking her legs. “Goblin pretty too!” she chirped, leaning sideways in an attempt to peer at the food Ruan Mei was plating.

“Ah-ah.” Herta tugged her gently back upright, lips curving in a sly smile. “Breakfast first, beauty second.”

But Elara wasn’t convinced. Every time Ruan Mei sliced something or lifted a dish, she craned her neck, little hands inching forward. Once, she even tried to sneak a grape when Herta’s attention dipped—but Herta, without even looking, caught her wrist mid-air.

“Not until your braid is finished,” Herta said, her tone far too smug. “A true masterpiece requires patience.”

“Patience boring,” Elara muttered, but she sat still, huffing in a way that made both women hide their smiles.

When Herta finally tied off the end of the braid, Elara practically skipped to her chair the moment Herta declared the braid finished, her little hands patting the table impatiently as though breakfast were the most important event in the galaxy. Ruan Mei followed with practiced grace, carrying a plate arranged just for her.

She set it down carefully in front of Elara: toast cut into small, neat triangles, fruit slices arranged in a gentle curve like a crescent moon, and a tiny drizzle of honey to give sweetness without risk. Beside it, she placed the bright sippy cup Elara had chosen earlier, filled with juice diluted just right.

“There we go,” Ruan Mei murmured, smoothing Elara’s hair once more before turning to adjust the plate. “Eat slowly, little one. And no, you cannot trade the apple slices for more toast.”

Elara pouted, but her sparkle never dimmed as she picked up the first piece.

As Elara dug in with bright enthusiasm, Ruan Mei caught Herta’s gaze across the table. The scientist shook her head softly, amused at the scene of their “spark” pouting about patience one minute and eating like the happiest star in the galaxy the next.

“Not bad, witch,” Ruan Mei murmured, nodding at the fishtail braid now bobbing over Elara’s shoulder.

Herta leaned back with a satisfied smirk, arms folded. “Of course not. My work never disappoints.”

Elara raised her head, cheeks stuffed, and declared with muffled certainty, “Pretty goblin!”

The two women couldn’t help but laugh, the sound softening the edges of the morning into something warm, domestic, and almost too perfect to be 

Then Ruan Mei straightened, ready to step away and fetch her own plate—but before she could, a pair of familiar arms slid around her waist. She froze for only a moment before relaxing into the hold, recognizing the warmth that pressed against her back.

Herta’s chin came to rest lightly on her shoulder. “So meticulous,” the witch murmured, her voice low and amused. “You treat breakfast like it’s a grand experiment.”

Ruan Mei smiled faintly, though her cheeks colored at the breath brushing her ear. “For her, every detail matters. If I misstep even once—”

“—you won’t,” Herta interrupted, pressing a kiss just beneath her jaw, lips brushing against the side of her neck. Ruan Mei’s hand tightened on the edge of the counter, composure tested by the softness of the gesture.

“Herta,” she whispered, a warning that didn’t carry much strength.

“Relax,” Herta teased, brushing another kiss lower against her throat. “She’s too busy counting her fruit pieces to notice.”

Sure enough, Elara was fully absorbed, lining up her grapes on the plate as though they were soldiers on parade. Completely oblivious.

Ruan Mei let out a quiet breath, fighting between exasperation and the way her heart leapt at the contact. She tilted her head just slightly—not enough to admit she wanted more, but enough that Herta’s lips curved into a smile against her skin.

It lasted only a moment before Herta drew back, smug and satisfied, slipping past her toward the table as though nothing had happened. By the time Elara looked up, mouth full and eyes bright, Herta was already seated as if she’d been there the entire time.

Ruan Mei shook her head softly, hiding her fluster behind a serene smile as she poured her own tea. It was impossible to decide which was more difficult—managing Elara’s endless energy, or Herta’s endless mischief.

Chapter Text

The clink of dishes filled the quiet alcove as breakfast slowly wound down. Ruan Mei moved with practiced grace, collecting plates and stacking them neatly at the counter, while Herta lounged back in her chair, arms crossed, looking far too smug for someone who had contributed precisely nothing to the meal.

Elara, on the other hand, was still perched proudly at the table, cheeks smudged faintly with honey, braid bouncing every time she kicked her legs. “Mama, today I’m going to build the biggest castle,” she announced with all the solemnity of a queen delivering her decree. “With pillows. And dragons. And—and maybe snacks inside too.”

“Ambitious,” Herta drawled, one brow arching. “A goblin queen requires a fortress, after all.”

Elara’s eyes sparkled, catching the word. “Yes! Goblin queen castle!” She thumped her little fist against the table for emphasis, nearly toppling her sippy cup in the process.

Ruan Mei caught it deftly, setting it back upright with a sigh that was more fond than scolding. “A castle that will no doubt take over the entire room,” she murmured, sliding another plate into the stack.

Elara, unbothered by logistics, nodded vigorously. “You can both be guards. Mommy, you’re the strong one, and Mama, you’re the smart one. No bad guys allowed.”

Herta smirked, leaning forward to ruffle Elara’s curls, deliberately mussing the careful braid. “Hear that? I get to be the muscle.”

Ruan Mei straightened from the counter, arching a brow. “Oh wonderful,” she said dryly, voice dripping with mock dismay. “I’ve gone and given ‘birth’ to a miniature version of you.”

That earned her a sharp, delighted giggle from Herta, who tilted her head back in unrepentant laughter. “Finally, you admit it,” the witch purred. “She’s my legacy.”

“Legacy goblin!” Elara chirped, happily echoing the phrase without any clue of the subtext. She held her dragon plush aloft like a banner, cheeks flushed with triumph.

Ruan Mei pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath, “This household will be the end of me.” Yet the warmth that lingered in her eyes betrayed her. Even surrounded by chaos, even with Herta smirking like a cat that had swallowed the stars, she wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

After breakfast, Elara insisted the castle could wait. “First, experiment!” she declared, scrambling down from her chair before either woman could question it. Her dragon plush bounced along in one arm while she used the other to haul a stack of cups from the counter.

Ruan Mei froze halfway through rinsing a plate, blinking as Elara began arranging them in a neat, staggered line across the table. “Experiment?”

“Yes,” Elara said firmly, balancing on her tiptoes to reach another cup. “Like Mama does. Only better. Mine has juice.”

Herta let out a low chuckle from the doorway, folding her arms with exaggerated amusement. “Oh no. She’s going to out-scientist you, Mei.”

Ruan Mei pressed her lips together, torn between pride and exasperation. “It isn’t science if the hypothesis is ‘because I said so.’”

Elara stuck her tongue out, already carefully pouring diluted juice from her sippy cup into the first container. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim, but she managed to steady it with both hands. “Hypo—hypopofis,” she repeated, clearly mangling the word but pretending she hadn’t. “Means… the juice will make the dragon strong!”

“Ah,” Herta said with mock solemnity. “A noble study.”

Elara lifted her dragon plush high above the table, as though blessing the cups with its presence. Then, with a very serious expression, she dipped one of its felt claws into the first cup.

It was ridiculous. It was adorable. And then—it wasn’t.

Because as she leaned forward to inspect her “results,” faint lilac sparks flickered at her fingertips, crackling for just a moment before winking out again. The surface of the juice shimmered unnaturally, rippling in time with the glow. One of the cups rattled faintly against the table, sliding half an inch without being touched.

Ruan Mei’s breath caught. She gripped the edge of the counter, mind already cataloging, analyzing, memorizing every detail. Her heart tugged in two directions at once: the scientist in her wanted to log data, take readings, test variables. But the mother in her—oh, the mother wanted to scoop Elara up and shield her from what those sparks meant.

Herta, of course, only arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Congratulations,” she drawled. “You’ve created a miniature witch. A very sticky one.”

Elara looked up at her with wide, delighted eyes. “See? Experiment works!” she chirped, oblivious to the deeper weight in her mothers’ gazes. She thrust the dragon plush forward again, as though the plush itself deserved credit. “Dragon’s strong now!”

Ruan Mei forced a smile, crouching beside the table to gently steady the rattling cups. “Yes, little nova,” she whispered, brushing a curl back from Elara’s forehead. “Stronger than you know.”

The living quarters inside HSS had gone quiet, save for the hum of consoles and the scratching of Ruan Mei’s holo-quill as it trailed glowing runes across a suspended sheet of light. Around her, the N.O.V.A. files floated like fractured constellations. Data rearranged itself as if eager to be read, drawn into patterns whenever Elara’s lilac sparks brushed the projections.

“The Path of the Luminous Nova,” Ruan Mei murmured, the title unfurling across the parchment in a shimmer of gold. “Its stages are beginning to reveal themselves.”

Herta leaned lazily against a terminal, watching Elara kick her feet on the couch, rabbit clutched tight. “Sounds like something I’d find in one of my grimoires. Very witchy.”

Ruan Mei’s lips twitched. “Great. I gave birth to a miniature you.”

That earned her a sharp look from Herta, but the amusement lingered.

Ruan Mei pressed on. “The path begins with Spark—innocence unbroken, the laughter that refuses to dim. Then comes Flame—growth, the first shaping of power, a will learning to bend reality. Next is Radiance—the widening circle, where one’s light doesn’t consume but connects. And at the end lies Nova—not destruction, not domination, but the scattering of light into countless reflections.”

Lilac sparks danced across the page at the word Nova, answering as though Elara herself had blessed the naming.

But Ruan Mei hesitated, quill poised. “This path is not about creating new Aeons. Not everyone can ascend. It is about preserving humanity, wonder, and individuality even as one grows. Elara is singular. Others may walk in her light, yes—but they will not become her. They will become themselves, illuminated.”

A shiver threaded through the station. Lights flickered. And then—beyond the viewport—a strange pulse rippled outward. The Sun, Earth’s star, shimmered briefly with a halo of lilac and silver, as if Elara’s magic had brushed it in playful orbit. A distant echo of what might one day follow her—someone, somewhere, who will walk closest to her light, tethered in ways the universe hasn’t yet revealed.

Elara giggled, pointing out the window. “Shiny! Mama, look—it’s sparkling like me!”

Herta’s brows lifted, but Ruan Mei only tightened her grip on the quill, heart racing. A child’s laugh, a rabbit’s bounce, and somewhere between, the foundation of a new Path. The Luminous Nova was not theory anymore—it was alive, already reshaping the cosmos.

As the afternoon light spilled through the viewport, dusting the medbay in lazy gold. Elara sat cross-legged on the floor, rabbit tucked under her arm, giggling as she stacked blocks that shimmered faintly with her lilac sparks.

Ruan Mei leaned against the counter, eyes tracking every careful movement of her little nova. “Herta,” she murmured, a sly tilt to her lips, “I need a favor.”

Herta looked up from the tools she was tidying. “A favor? Sounds ominous.”

“Not ominous,” Ruan Mei said, suppressing a smirk. “I just need someone to keep Elara occupied for a bit. Call Asta. Babysitting duty. You handle it. We’ll make sure she’s entertained.” Her gaze flicked to Herta, glinting with playful warning. “After that… I get my revenge.”

Herta’s smirk widened knowingly. “Ah, the revenge you’ve been scheming since morning. All while pretending to read N.O.V.A. files.”

“Exactly.” Ruan Mei’s hand tapped the counter, excitement teasing her composure. “All in good time. First, the duty.”

Herta leaned closer, amusement glinting in her eyes. “I’ll make sure the little nova is well-managed. But don’t think I won’t notice when your ‘revenge’ begins.”

Elara’s attention was fully absorbed with the blocks, lilac sparks lightly brushing the wood as she wobbled the top piece. “Mama! Look! Magic tower!”

Herta chuckled, moving to nudge the leaning stack back into alignment. “Indeed. Our little witch is ambitious.”

Ruan Mei crouched, letting her gaze flick over Herta, noting the faint marks on her neck and the mischievous tilt of her lips. “Ambitious,” she murmured to herself, lips curling into a quiet, knowing smile. Her mind mapped out every playful twist of the revenge she planned, every lingering touch and teasing kiss—but carefully deferred until Elara was safely distracted.

Moments later, Herta touched her comm device, issuing a soft command. Asta’s familiar presence soon filled the medbay, taking up a position near Elara and guiding her through gentle activities, keeping her happily engaged. The lilac sparks danced around the room, brushing counters and utensils in soft arcs, as if cheering the little girl on.

Ruan Mei’s heart quickened, and her gaze met Herta’s. The smirk on Herta’s lips only fueled the thrill—the private, teasing promise of what was coming once duty was fulfilled.

Elara clapped her hands, oblivious. “All done! Magic Asta!”

Ruan Mei let out a quiet breath, the medbay now calm but charged. With Asta ensuring Elara’s safety and attention, the stage was set. Revenge—sweet, deliberate, and intimate—was imminent.

As the medbay had fallen quiet. Asta’s gentle voice floated down the corridor, accompanied by the high, sweet laughter of Elara. The child’s joy was fading into the distance now, safe in capable hands. Ruan Mei’s wrist console buzzed once, her own message flashing across it: Put her to bed at her usual time, Asta. Don’t worry—we’ll check in later. A quick reply blinked back—Understood. Leave her to me. Relief settled in her chest; Elara was cared for, and the night was hers.

She turned then, her eyes locking onto Herta. The witch leaned casually against the console, bathed in monitor-light. Ruan Mei’s breath hitched at the sight: the curve of Herta’s throat, the way her lips twitched with that insufferable, knowing smirk.

“You’re far too smug,” Ruan Mei murmured, stepping forward, each footfall deliberate.

Herta tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Smug? No, my dear. Merely observant. I can practically see the gears turning in that beautiful head of yours.”

Ruan Mei’s lips curved, sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. “Then you should know what happens when you push me this far.”

Her hand slid along the console, caging Herta in. The witch didn’t flinch—if anything, she leaned closer, the faintest pink rising in her cheeks.

Ruan Mei’s fingers brushed the high collar of her uniform, pausing as though testing its fastenings. “I gave ‘birth’ to a miniature version of you,” she whispered, voice low and playful. “And now I have to deal with the original as well. You can imagine the… consequences.”

Herta smirked, though her breath betrayed her. “Ah, so this is the revenge you’ve been plotting.”

“Oh, Herta,” Ruan Mei said, leaning in until their noses nearly touched, her breath warm against the witch’s lips. “This is only the beginning.”

Her hand skimmed the line of Herta’s throat, watching the witch’s composure crack—the sharp intake of breath, the bead of sweat at her temple, the heat rushing to her cheeks. Herta’s green eyes flickered down, drawn helplessly toward Ruan Mei’s mouth.

Instead of indulging, Ruan Mei brushed her lips against the corner of Herta’s mouth—a ghost of a kiss, deliberate in its incompleteness. She pulled back just enough to let the tension snap, smiling as Herta let out the faintest sound, low and frustrated.

“That,” Ruan Mei whispered, retreating with infuriating grace, “is the revenge you’ve earned for today.”

Herta’s chest rose and fell faster, her control undone, her smirk softened into something far hungrier. She was no longer the smug witch but the woman caught in Ruan Mei’s orbit, tethered by want.

From the hall came Elara’s sleepy hum as Asta coaxed her into quieter games. Ruan Mei’s smile softened at the sound, but her eyes never left Herta’s. “Tonight,” she promised, silk and fire in her voice, “the stars belong to us.”

The station lay in silence, its hum softened into the background like a lullaby. In the medbay’s dim light, the bedclothes clung damply to skin, scattered across the floor like casualties of war. Ruan Mei lay on her side, flushed and breathless, her hair clinging to her neck in dark strands. Herta sprawled opposite her, chest rising and falling in quickened rhythm, her own skin shining faintly with sweat.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Only their breaths filled the air, shallow and uneven, the remnants of fire still sparking between them.

Ruan Mei shifted first. Her hand trailed across Herta’s collarbone, following the slope downward until it cupped the soft curve of her breast. Herta gasped softly, caught between fatigue and renewed desire, her back arching into the touch.

“Still smug?” Ruan Mei teased, though her voice was more a whisper than a taunt. Her lips brushed Herta’s jaw, leaving a trail of heated kisses until she reached her mouth.

Herta responded without hesitation, her kiss lingering and hungry, slow where it had once been frantic. Their mouths moved together with the rhythm of exhaustion—gentle, tender, but no less consuming.

For a while, time blurred. Fingers tangled in mussed hair, lips brushed across damp skin, the world narrowed to nothing but the press of one against the other.

Then—

The soft hum of their kisses broke apart when a sharp, heart-wrenching cry cut through the station’s stillness. Elara.

Both women froze, eyes locking with startled urgency before instinct snapped them into motion. Ruan Mei slipped off the bed first, fumbling for the nearest robe, the silk tangling around her damp skin. Herta yanked hers from the chair, cinching it clumsily as she shoved her hair out of her face.

The sweat on their bodies was cooling far too fast, hearts still racing from entirely different exertions a moment ago. Now the only thing that mattered was the little girl sobbing down the hall.

Side by side, still flushed and breathless, they hurried into the corridor, the ties of their robes barely knotted as they rushed toward Elara’s room—leaving behind the remnants of passion, carrying with them something far greater.

Elara’s room was dim, lit only by the faint lavender glow of the station’s night-lights. She sat upright in her small bed, clutching her dragon plush so tightly it looked as though she might crush the seams. Her curls were plastered to her damp cheeks, eyes swollen with tears.

“Mama! Mommy!” she cried, voice breaking.

Ruan Mei was at her side in an instant, the scientist’s robe slipping loose at her shoulder as she dropped to the edge of the bed. “Shhh, little nova, it’s all right. We’re here.” Her hands smoothed Elara’s curls back, trembling faintly from both urgency and leftover adrenaline.

Herta knelt on the other side, tugging the blanket up around Elara’s shoulders, cocooning her small frame. “What happened, spark?” she asked softly, her usual teasing tone absent. “Bad dream?”

Elara hiccupped, burying her face in Ruan Mei’s chest. “Monster… it was loud, it—it wanted to take you away!” Her tiny fists tightened in the robe fabric, desperate, terrified.

Ruan Mei’s heart clenched. She pressed a kiss to Elara’s curls, rocking her gently. “No monster could ever take us from you. Do you hear me? We’re not going anywhere.”

Herta slipped her hand over Elara’s, gently prying the dragon plush free so she could tuck it against the child’s chest properly. “Even if monsters came,” she murmured, brushing a thumb under Elara’s damp eye, “we’d burn them to ashes before they touched a single hair on your head.”

That drew a shaky laugh through Elara’s tears, though her grip never loosened.

Ruan Mei shifted back just enough to check her forehead, old habits tugging at her. No fever, just heat from crying. Relief softened her shoulders. She brushed her thumb across Elara’s cheek. “It was only a dream, love. Dreams can’t hurt you.”

Elara sniffled, eyes half-lidded now from exhaustion. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Ruan Mei and Herta said in unison.

The tension in Elara’s small body finally unwound. She curled back beneath her blanket, dragon pressed close. Ruan Mei tucked her in firmly, while Herta leaned down to kiss her temple.

“Sleep now, spark,” Herta whispered, smoothing the braid that had come undone in sleep. “We’ll be right outside your door.”

“No,” Elara mumbled, already fading. “Stay here.”

Ruan Mei’s heart softened instantly. She glanced at Herta, who sighed but was already tugging another blanket from the chair. Without a word, the two women settled on either side of Elara’s bed, pulling the blanket over themselves as well.

Sandwiched safely between them, Elara’s breathing slowed, evening into the soft rhythm of sleep.

For a long time after, the only sound in the room was that fragile, steady breathing. Ruan Mei reached across the small child’s body, brushing her fingers against Herta’s under the covers. Their eyes met over Elara’s head—exhausted, still flushed, but full of something deeper than desire.

The scientist’s lips curved faintly. “Our spark,” she whispered.

Herta squeezed her hand once in reply. “Ours.”

The room got silent once more, Elara’s sobs had long since quieted, her tiny body curled between them like a fragile star finally at rest. The soft light of her nightlamp painted constellations across the ceiling, flickering gently with the faintest undertone of lilac.

its hum dimmed into a lullaby. A single lamp glowed in Ruan Mei and Herta’s quarters, warm light pooling over tangled sheets and the faint outline of two women sitting side by side, bathrobes belted hastily around them after Elara’s nightmare.

Ruan Mei leaned against the headboard, her damp hair sticking slightly to her neck. Herta sat beside her, knees drawn up, fiddling with a loose ribbon on her robe. For a long moment, neither spoke, listening instead to the soft rhythm of Elara’s breathing from the other room, carried faintly through the station vents.

“She’s settled,” Herta murmured, finally breaking the silence. “Back to dreaming.”

Ruan Mei brushed a thumb over the child’s damp cheek, whispering, “She always chooses the most dramatic moments, doesn’t she?” Her robe clung to her collarbone, still damp, still wrinkled from the rush out of their room.

Herta gave a faint, amused snort, lying mirrored on the other side of Elara. “She’s a child. Drama is her power.” Her voice softened as she looked at the sleeping girl. “Though I suppose she inherited that from you.”

Chapter Text

The hum of the station greeted the sunrise before anyone else did. It was a lazy, silvery tone — the kind that whispered through vents and hummed in the glass panels when the artificial day began.

Elara stirred first. Her curls were a sleepy tangle against her pillow, dragon plush pinned under her chin. She blinked blearily, confusion giving way to the soft warmth pressed on either side of her — Ruan Mei’s arm draped over her waist, Herta’s robe sleeve curled against her small shoulder.

For a long, drowsy moment, she stayed still, as if waking too quickly might break something fragile.

“Mama?” she whispered.

Ruan Mei’s eyes fluttered open instantly — the instinct of a mother who hadn’t slept deeply in years. Her voice was husky from sleep, but gentle. “Good morning, little nova.”

Herta grumbled something unintelligible from the other side, tightening her hold. “Too early,” she muttered into her pillow. “We survived nightmares. That deserves at least two more hours.”

Elara giggled softly, the sound echoing off the quiet medbay walls. “No, silly Mommy, it’s morning! The castle needs guards!”

Herta cracked one eye open, smirk flickering back to life. “Ah yes, the castle. Of course.”

But Ruan Mei’s gaze had shifted — not to the castle talk, but to the faint lilac shimmer still ghosting across Elara’s fingertips as she reached for her dragon plush. It pulsed once, then faded, like starlight sinking beneath water.

“...Elara,” Ruan Mei murmured, brushing the child’s hand lightly, watching the faint glow dissipate against her palm.

Elara blinked up at her. “It’s sleepy light,” she said matter-of-factly. “From my dream.”

Ruan Mei’s heart skipped a beat. “Your dream?”

Before she could ask further, Herta sat up, rubbing her eyes and yawning dramatically. “Let her eat first, scientist. The goblin queen can’t rule on an empty stomach.”

Ruan Mei tried to smile, but her thoughts snagged on the word dream — and the faint pulse she’d seen shimmer across Elara’s hand.

Lilac light. Still lingering. Still alive.

Breakfast was unusually quiet for such a small household. The table gleamed under soft white light; toast crumbs scattered like stardust across the surface. Elara swung her legs as she sipped warm milk from her sippy cup, brow furrowed in uncharacteristic thought.

“Sweetheart,” Ruan Mei said gently, cutting fruit into neat cubes. “You said your dream had a light?”

Elara nodded. “A big one. It talked funny. It said… hmm…” She scrunched her nose, thinking. “It said it wanted to take Mama away. But I didn’t let it. I said ‘no!’ really loud.”

Ruan Mei froze, knife halfway through an apple slice.

Herta, ever the skeptic, leaned back with a faint chuckle. “Sounds like a heroic dream to me.”

But Elara shook her head with a solemn frown, curls bouncing. “It wasn’t pretend. It was loud. It made the stars go all shimmery.”

A faint hum tickled the air — or maybe it was the station lights flickering. Ruan Mei’s pulse quickened. “Did the voice say its name?”

Elara tilted her head. “It said… ‘found.’ Like it was happy. Then it went away.”

Ruan Mei’s gaze darted to Herta, and the witch’s teasing grin faltered.

Both women sat in silence for a moment too long. The juice in Elara’s cup rippled faintly — a perfect, silent echo of the ripple that had brushed the station days ago when Elara’s laughter first reached the cosmos.

Later, when Elara was busy building a new pillow fortress, Ruan Mei slipped back into her lab. The door sealed behind her with a sigh.

Screens bloomed to life in front of her — layers of glowing glyphs and floating graphs from the station’s sensors. She called up the data logs from the night before, fingers trembling slightly as she typed.

The readouts didn’t lie. At 02:47 station time — precisely when Elara had screamed — the ship’s internal sensors had recorded a brief fluctuation in cosmic resonance frequency.

Not within the station.
But from outside.

Her breath caught. She ran the readings again, isolating the waveform. It was faint, distorted… but familiar.

A harmonic echo of Elara’s own energy signature.

“No…” Ruan Mei whispered, dragging her fingers down the data columns. “It’s impossible.”

The graphs shimmered, lilac light pulsing faintly as if responding to her words.

She hit record on a private log. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Entry 92-B. Resonance detected. Temporal alignment matches Elara’s nightmare. The signal was not generated internally. The universe may be… listening back.”

She stared at the hovering waveform, her reflection caught in the glass beside it.
For the first time since N.O.V.A. began, the scientist in her felt small.

“See? Like this.” Herta folded the shiny paper carefully, pressing each corner with deliberate precision. Elara copied her, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in concentration.

The observatory’s wide viewport stretched before them, spilling starlight across the floor. Dozens of paper stars now dangled from the ceiling, spinning slowly with the recycled air.

Elara hummed softly as she worked, a tune that didn’t sound like any lullaby Herta knew. It was delicate, haunting, threaded with lilac light that shimmered faintly along the edges of the stars.

“That’s a new song, spark,” Herta murmured, glancing up. “Where’d you learn it?”

Elara blinked innocently. “The dream voice taught me. It was singing too.”

The air around them seemed to ripple — barely perceptible, like the softest heartbeat. The papers swayed on their strings.

Herta’s hand froze mid-fold.
Then, with practiced ease, she forced a smile. “Aha, so your mysterious friend is a musician. Clearly good taste — witches also prefer dramatic soundtracks.”

Elara giggled, her glow dimming back to normal.

Still, Herta couldn’t shake the weight in her chest. The song clung to her ears long after Elara went to fetch another sheet of paper — like an echo she wasn’t supposed to hear.

The comm screen blinked to life just as Ruan Mei rubbed the sleep from her eyes for what felt like the fifth time that day. The station was quiet again—too quiet. Elara was napping in her little fort of blankets and stuffed dragons, Herta was supposedly calibrating telescopes (and definitely procrastinating), and Ruan Mei… couldn’t stop replaying the readings.

“Ruan Mei! Finally!” Asta’s bright face filled the screen, pink hair slightly frazzled and her lab coat half buttoned. “Tell me you’re seeing the same readings we are—because either my equipment’s broken or the universe just hiccupped.”

Ruan Mei’s heart skipped. “Define… hiccup.”

“The lilac pulse!” Asta gestured wildly behind her where holographic graphs danced in the air. “A few hours ago, the entire array detected a resonance burst that matched your station’s coordinate vector. It wasn’t random—it was harmonic, rhythmic. Like… singing, almost.”

Herta appeared suddenly behind Ruan Mei, still clutching a half-folded paper star. “Oh, good. It wasn’t just my imagination.”

Asta blinked. “You heard it too?”

Elara’s name sat unspoken on all their tongues.

Ruan Mei straightened, her tone calm but her knuckles white against the console. “The pulse aligns with 02:47. There was… a disturbance in Elara’s sleep at that time.”

Asta frowned, voice softening. “A child caused that? Ruan Mei, that was an interstellar frequency range. It hit deep-space relays. Even Luofu’s sensors got echoes.”

Herta muttered, “So the galaxy literally hummed her lullaby back. Charming.”

Ruan Mei’s eyes flicked toward the medbay door, where faint giggles and plushie thumps could be heard. “She said the light spoke to her,” she admitted quietly. “Said it wanted to take me away.”

Asta’s cheerful tone faltered. “That’s… concerning.”

“Understatement,” Herta murmured, arms crossed. “We’ve been ignoring signs for weeks—levitation, cosmic energy ripples, songs that bend reality—and now the stars are duetting with her dreams.”

Asta hesitated, then sighed. “I’ll increase the observation net. But, Ruan Mei… if it escalates, you might need to file a Class-A anomaly report.”

That word—anomaly—made something inside Ruan Mei twist sharply. She forced a smile. “Understood. But for now… she’s just a little girl. One who sings to the stars.”

The line flickered, then went dark. The hum of the station crept back in.

Herta leaned closer, her tone gentler now. “You’re thinking the same thing I am, aren’t you?”

Ruan Mei didn’t answer. She just looked toward Elara’s fort—where faint lilac light glowed through the blanket folds, pulsing softly like a heartbeat.

The lights in the space station dimmed to their nocturnal shimmer — faint blues and silvers tracing across polished metal floors like the ghost of a moon. Ruan Mei couldn’t sleep. Again.

Her mind replayed the lilac waveform from Asta’s report, looping endlessly like a haunting melody. She’d tried analyzing it, isolating frequencies, finding logic in the chaos… but the pattern was alive. Organic. The kind that didn’t just exist — it listened back.

And the longer she stared at it, the more it felt like it was breathing in sync with her.

“…this is ridiculous,” she whispered, pushing away from her console. Her footsteps echoed softly as she walked down the corridor. No sound but the soft hiss of recycled air and the distant hum of the ship’s heart.

When she reached Elara’s door, it was cracked open — just a sliver — and that faint violet light seeped through like fog from another realm.

Ruan Mei exhaled, then pushed the door open.

Elara was asleep in her nest of pillows and plushies, her hair glowing faintly in rippling gradients of lilac and gold. Every breath she took sent a pulse through the air — like the rhythm of a cosmic heartbeat. Her stuffed dragon, a worn, floppy purple thing, twitched with the same light.

And then Ruan Mei heard it.

Not with her ears. With her bones.

A hum. Slow. Deep. Resonating in every cell of her body. A vibration that wrapped around her thoughts like warm silk. She swore she could almost see it — shimmering threads of energy weaving between Elara and the stars outside the viewport.

“...Lara?” she whispered.

Elara stirred, but didn’t wake. Instead, the hum intensified — a soft, melodic wave that filled the room with something indescribably tender. The toy dragon rolled over and gave a sleepy snort, its fabric briefly levitating an inch before plopping back down.

The hum shifted tones. It became words.

Not yet.
She dreams still.
She listens.

Ruan Mei’s breath caught in her throat. “Who—?”

The air shimmered. A faint outline appeared above Elara’s bed — not a figure, but a shape of light. Like a mirrored reflection of Elara herself, older, taller, her gaze made of galaxies.

The vision whispered:

“You built her for tomorrow. But tomorrow has begun to build itself.”

Then it was gone — like a reflection swallowed by the water’s surface.

Ruan Mei sank to her knees beside the bed, her pulse wild, her hands trembling. She reached out, brushing a lock of Elara’s hair from her forehead.

The glow faded. The hum quieted. The only sound left was Elara’s gentle breathing.

“…Nova,” Ruan Mei murmured, half to herself. “You’re… already listening, aren’t you?”

Outside the viewport, the stars blinked in response — three times, evenly spaced, like a message sent in heartbeat rhythm.

Morning spilled softly across the medbay, painting gold streaks on the polished walls. The lilac glow from the night before was gone, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and lavender in the air — but Ruan Mei still felt it in her bones. That resonance hadn’t been a dream.

She was still deep in thought when the sound of a giggle tugged her back to reality.

Elara sat cross-legged on her bed, hair wild from sleep, hugging her stuffed dragon like it was a priceless treasure. “Mamaaa!” she sang. “Guess what! I saw a nice lady!”

Ruan Mei froze mid-sip of tea. “...A lady?”

“Uh-huh!” Elara nodded, her curls bouncing. “She was made of light. Like me but bigger! Her hair was long, all shiny and dark and twisty—” she twirled a lock of her own hair in demonstration “—and she wore this pretty, floaty dress that sparkled like the stars.”

Herta looked up from her datapad, curious. “Describe her,” she said, voice careful.

Elara’s little hands traced the air, painting the vision in movement. “Her dress was soft and see-through at the edges—pink and purple that kept changing, like clouds at sunset! And there were little shiny flowers everywhere—on her arms, her shoes, even her hair!”

She squeezed her dragon and added, eyes dreamy, “Her shoes were pointy and glittered like glass, with tiny purple gems that glowed when she walked. She had a pretty necklace, too. It looked like starlight got stuck inside a flower.”

Ruan Mei’s breath hitched. That matched the apparition she’d seen last night — perfectly.

Elara continued, whispering as though recalling a secret. “She said she was me. But from later. Like… when I grow up all the way! She smiled and told me not to be scared, ’cause she’s happy now. And she said…” Elara’s voice softened to a hum, her words blending with the sound of her heartbeat. “She said, ‘The stars remember you.’”

Herta blinked, lowering her datapad. “That’s… new.”

Elara tilted her head, curious at their silence. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Ruan Mei murmured, gently brushing Elara’s hair behind her ear. “You said something very right.”

For a moment, the three of them just sat there, wrapped in the morning light. The air shimmered faintly — almost imperceptibly — as if the universe itself leaned in to listen.

And on the medbay monitor behind them, unnoticed, a new anomaly signature blinked into existence. It bore one label, in pale lilac text:

“Subject NOVA — Temporal Reflection Detected.”

The lab lights burned low, screens flickering with strings of data too complex for even the average genius to parse at a glance. But Ruan Mei wasn’t just a genius. She was the woman who’d built miracles out of equations and love.

And tonight, the miracle had started to talk back.

Herta leaned over the console beside her, tapping at the wave-form display. “These are the readings from this morning?”

Ruan Mei nodded. “And the residuals from last night’s pulse. Look here.” She magnified the waveform—delicate lilac threads of light arcing across the screen in steady rhythm. “The frequency matches Elara’s emotional signatures… but it’s offset. Slightly out of phase. Like it’s coming from outside linear time.”

Herta arched an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting the child is… echoing herself? Across timelines?”

“Not echoing,” Ruan Mei said softly, eyes flicking toward the glass viewport where Penacony’s distant glow drifted like a sleeping star. “Reaching. Responding.”

A long silence followed, filled only by the hum of machines and the soft rhythm of Elara’s breathing through the audio feed from her room.

“Temporal reflections aren’t new,” Herta said finally, arms crossed. “But they don’t… converse. They’re data shadows—imprints of possible futures, not—”

“—not entities with agency?” Ruan Mei finished for her, smiling faintly. “I would’ve agreed yesterday.”

Herta frowned, pacing a little. “If this is truly her from the future, then it means—”

“It means her consciousness exists beyond time.” Ruan Mei’s voice trembled with a mix of awe and fear. “That her ascension path—the Luminous Nova—isn’t just a metaphor. She’s already achieved temporal resonance. She’s communicating backward.”

Herta stared at her. “Then what does she want to tell us?”

Ruan Mei looked back at the data. Her hand hovered over a playback icon labeled Temporal Echo: 02:47 AM. She pressed it.

The waveform sang.

Not digitally, not mechanically—but like something alive. A hauntingly beautiful harmony of tones that shimmered through the lab air. Beneath it, faint whispers in Elara’s own voice overlapped:

“You built me to find the light.”
“Don’t be afraid of what I become.”
“I promise… I remember you.”

Ruan Mei’s throat tightened. She closed her eyes, holding back tears she couldn’t explain.

Herta’s usual smirk faltered. “Well,” she murmured. “Looks like the future has good taste in sentimentality.”

Ruan Mei gave a shaky laugh. “Or she’s warning us.”

They turned to the monitor. The waveform’s tail-end was shifting again—forming faint letters out of lilac sparks.

“NOVEMBER FIFTH.”

Herta blinked. “Her birthday?”

Ruan Mei’s eyes widened. “Or… the day everything begins.”

Chapter Text

The hum of the station had changed.

It wasn’t the usual steady mechanical purr, that soft metal heartbeat that Ruan Mei could map out by memory. This was softer—gentler, almost shy. Like the station itself was trying to sing.

Ruan Mei stood in the middle of her lab, surrounded by the slow rise and fall of glowing holograms. Every time Elara giggled in the medbay down the hall, the graphs reacted. Frequency spikes in perfect rhythm.

It was happening again.

She turned toward the glass partition. On the other side, Elara was perched on the counter, swinging her legs as Herta tried (unsuccessfully) to brush her curls into some sort of order. The brush kept floating away, tugged by a lazy swirl of lilac energy that pulsed with each hum from Elara’s chest.

“Stop laughing at it, Mommy, you’ll make it float more!” Elara protested, grabbing at the rogue brush midair.

Herta smirked. “That’s exactly the point. If it’s going to misbehave, it might as well perform.”

The brush gave a final twirl before plopping neatly back into Herta’s hand. She arched an eyebrow. “See? Trained.”

Elara gasped, delighted. “It listened!”

Ruan Mei stepped closer to the glass, hands folded. The sensors above Elara flickered—each pulse matching her laughter. The energy wasn’t chaotic; it was harmonic.

It was listening, yes… but it was also answering back.

Later, when the lights dimmed for simulated evening, the air felt heavier. Not oppressive—just… awake.

Herta and Elara were building paper stars again, their laughter spilling across the observatory. Ruan Mei sat nearby, pretending to work, though her eyes kept flicking toward the panels on the wall.

They were reflecting light wrong.

Every few seconds, the mirrored glass didn’t quite sync with reality. Elara’s reflection moved a heartbeat too late—or too soon. Sometimes the reflection was smiling even when she wasn’t.

“Hmm?” Elara tilted her head, noticing Ruan Mei’s stare. “Mama? Is the glass sleepy?”

Ruan Mei blinked. “What do you mean?”

“It keeps forgetting,” Elara said, matter-of-factly. “It shows the wrong moments.”

Before Ruan Mei could respond, the reflection flickered again—this time showing Elara glowing faintly, like she had during the cosmic pulse. The image lingered, smiling softly, before fading.

Ruan Mei rose slowly, stepping closer. “Herta…”

“I see it,” Herta murmured, her humor gone.

The lights over the observatory stuttered—then steadied. On the nearest display, faint symbols began to draw themselves, like condensation taking shape: looping glyphs, spirals, lilac traces spelling out faint, broken words.

LISTEN. REMEMBER.

The hum returned around midnight.

Ruan Mei didn’t sleep; she rarely did when the data started whispering. She sat cross-legged on the lab floor with her datapads spread around her, her hair messy from running her fingers through it too many times.

At first, she thought the rhythmic pulses on the console were static. But then they repeated. Regular intervals.

She fed the data through the translation algorithm she’d built for Aeon field harmonics. The console vibrated softly, and sound poured through the speakers—soft, melodic.

It wasn’t just a tone. It was a voice-like cadence.

She turned the volume up.

The hum deepened. The lab’s screens flickered. Words formed out of the frequencies themselves, glowing faint lilac:

She dreams still. The walls thin.

The temperature dropped.

From the doorway, Herta’s voice came low. “That… came from outside the station.”

Ruan Mei swallowed. “It’s synchronized with Elara’s vitals. Exactly.”

Herta’s fingers twitched, small sparks jumping between them like nervous lightning. “That’s not an echo, Ruan Mei. That’s… communication.”

They both turned toward the medbay feed.

Elara was asleep, her dragon plush rising and falling with her breathing. The sensors around her bed glowed faintly in time with the pulse. Every few breaths, the room shimmered—like reality itself was bending closer to listen.

By morning, the world had gone strange.

The clocks disagreed. Reflections moved on their own.

At one point, Herta dropped her tea and watched it hang midair for three full seconds before gravity remembered what it was supposed to do.

“Charming,” she muttered. “We’re inside a half-functioning dream.”

Ruan Mei didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the latest data spike—one that didn’t originate from inside or outside the station, but from between.

“Temporal overlap detected,” the console whispered. “Source: Subject N.O.V.A.”

The hum filled the room again. Louder this time.

Ruan Mei looked up sharply—because she heard her own voice, faint and delayed, whispering from the static.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Then Elara sat up in bed, eyes half-open, glowing faintly with that impossible light.

“Home,” she murmured. “It’s calling.”

The walls shimmered. Herta grabbed her hand, grounding her with a flash of protective energy—but the air still rippled, bending like water disturbed by a heartbeat.

Then silence.

Just Elara’s slow breathing.

The screens faded to black, then reignited one by one. Across every surface, written in lilac text, was a single line pulsing in sync with Elara’s heart rate:

THE UNIVERSE HAS BEGUN TO LISTEN BACK.

Chapter Text

0400 hours – the observatory

The hum had changed again.
Not the quiet sort that wrapped the station in its usual metal lullaby — this one breathed. Soft, rhythmic, almost shy. Like a creature testing its voice for the first time.

Ruan Mei’s fingers hovered over the console, but the data wasn’t behaving.
The graphs pulsed in uneven waves, the numbers refused to align, and the holograms flickered between colors that didn’t exist on any known spectrum.

The universe, it seemed, was learning new hues.

From the medbay, a laugh echoed — high, bright, and four years old.

“Mommy! The brush is floating again!”

Ruan Mei looked up. Through the glass partition, she could see Elara sitting cross-legged on the counter, curls tangled around her cheeks. The brush twirled lazily in the air above her, spinning like a planet caught in orbit.

Herta stood nearby, mug in hand, completely unfazed. “Then tell it to stop misbehaving,” she said with the kind of calm only Herta could manage before dawn.

“I did! But it’s sleepy!”

“The brush?”

Elara nodded with deep conviction. “It doesn’t want to work in the morning. Like you.”

Ruan Mei choked back a laugh. Even in the middle of the impossible, her daughter could still turn the cosmos into comedy.

But the hum — that sound beneath everything — grew louder.
The brush stopped spinning.
So did the air.

Ruan Mei’s smile faltered. “...Elara?”

The girl blinked, curls haloed by lilac shimmer. “Hmm?”

For a moment, the reflection behind her moved differently — a heartbeat late. Then it smiled when she didn’t.

“Elara, step away from the glass.”

“Why?” she asked, leaning closer. Her voice softened. “She’s nice. She looks like me.”

“Elara—”

The reflection pressed its tiny hand against the surface. The real Elara did the same — fingertips meeting glass. Light rippled outward, soft and gold, then turned violet.

The room shivered.

Herta’s mug cracked. The sound was sharp and small — but everything that followed wasn’t.
The walls flickered. The stars outside blinked in and out of alignment.
And from the glass came writing — curling glyphs that glowed in rhythm with Elara’s heartbeat:

THE CHILD REMEMBERS WHAT THE MOTHERS FORGOT.

Ruan Mei froze. The words sank into her skin like static.

“Elara,” she whispered. “Sweetheart… do you know what that means?”

Elara tilted her head, thinking very hard. Then she smiled — that small, sleepy smile that somehow disarmed gods and scientists alike.

“It means… the dream woke up.”

The hum swelled — no longer shy.

The hum of the station had changed.

It wasn’t the ordinary kind of hum — not the steady, reliable purr that meant “everything is fine, go back to bed.” No, this was deeper. Quieter. A vibration that didn’t travel through the floors, but through the bones.

Ruan Mei woke first.

Her eyes opened to the dim red of the emergency panels flickering faintly against the ceiling. For a few seconds, she thought she was dreaming. Then the gravitational pressure hit her — a wave that made her chest tighten and the pens on her desk roll toward the center of the room.

“…Herta,” she whispered, sitting up, hair half-falling from its clip. “Do you feel that?”

A groggy groan came from the other side of the bed. Herta cracked one eye open, unimpressed. “If this is another one of your experiments—”

“It’s not,” Ruan Mei interrupted softly. “Listen.”

And they both did.

The air had a sound.
Like the faint ringing that lingers after a bell has been struck — except this one came from every direction. Even the glass of the observation window trembled as if under invisible fingertips.

Ruan Mei slipped off the bed, barefoot, her silk nightgown swaying. She tapped her wristband to activate the nearby console. Nothing. It sparked — then displayed a single message before shorting out completely:

“LUMINOUS SIGNATURE DETECTED.”

Herta finally sat up, hair an unkempt halo. “...That’s Elara’s tag.”

Ruan Mei’s blood ran cold.

They didn’t waste another word. Both ran down the corridor — the lights stuttering overhead, systems rebooting and dying in loops as they went. Every few meters, the gravity changed direction — as though the station itself couldn’t decide which way was down.

By the time they reached the medbay, the doors had already opened themselves.

Inside… was silence.

The kind that felt listening.

Elara was still on her bed — fast asleep, bunny hugged against her. But around her, the air shimmered faintly, bending the light like heatwaves. Her curls floated slightly above the pillow, as though gravity had forgotten her entirely.

“...Oh, stars,” Herta breathed.

Ruan Mei took a step forward, hand trembling as she scanned the readings on her wristband.
“Gravitational anomalies, radiant energy fluctuations, biofield spiking beyond measurable scale…” she whispered. “This is—”

“An awakening,” Herta finished quietly.

Elara stirred, mumbling something soft. Her tiny fingers twitched — and the entire room brightened with a faint, lilac glow. The stuffed bunny’s stitched eye gleamed for half a second before fading again.

Ruan Mei kneeled beside her, brushing the curls from her forehead.
“Sweetheart?”

Elara’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked at them, dazed, her voice small and hoarse with sleep.

“...The sky cried again.”

Ruan Mei froze. “The… sky?”

Elara nodded, half-asleep. “It was loud. I told it to stop, and it did.”

Her eyes glowed faintly violet, like two tiny galaxies. And when she looked at Ruan Mei — for a moment — Ruan Mei swore she saw something else staring back. Something ancient. Familiar.

Then the light blinked out. Elara yawned, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

The monitors flared once — a final pulse of energy radiating outward — and every instrument in the medbay displayed the same incomprehensible glyphs from before.

Then everything went still.

Ruan Mei didn’t move for a long time. Neither did Herta.

Finally, Herta whispered, “She didn’t just dream something, did she?”

Ruan Mei’s throat tightened. “…No,” she said softly. “Something dreamed her back.”

After a while of just standing there, the station did not breathe again for exactly seven minutes.

Every console. Every panel. Every faint pulse of power froze in perfect stillness — like the entire world had been put on pause.

Then, slowly, the hum returned. But it wasn’t the same one from before.
This one had… echoes.

Not sound.
Not vibration.
Presence.

It was as if the universe had turned its head.

Ruan Mei stood at the window, one hand pressed to the glass. The stars outside the station were wrong.

They weren’t twinkling — they were moving.
Whole constellations shifting position by a fraction of a degree, like the cosmos had inhaled too sharply and forgotten to exhale.

Behind her, Herta was running diagnostics with all the patience of a scientist trying not to scream.
“Every system says it’s fine,” she muttered. “Which means it’s not fine at all.”

Ruan Mei didn’t respond. Her gaze stayed locked on the stars — because one of them had just blinked. Not faded. Blink.

And when it reopened, a ripple crossed space like light moving through water.

From the medbay, a soft voice called out:
“...Mama?”

Both of them turned.

Elara stood in the doorway, barefoot, hair tangled from sleep. Her eyes were hazy, but her aura was brighter than the station lights. She rubbed at them, mumbling,
“It’s too loud. They keep saying my name.”

Ruan Mei’s heart stopped. “Who’s saying your name, sweetheart?”

Elara tilted her head. The air shimmered around her — faint lilac ribbons curling lazily like ink in water.
“The ones outside. The ones with… shiny hearts.”

Herta exchanged a sharp glance with Ruan Mei. “Aeons.”

Elara looked up again, and for just a second, the light around her fractured.
Not broken — expanded. Like her existence was being seen through more than three dimensions. Her small body flickered between the child they knew and something larger — a silhouette of a girl made of starlight and ancient memory.

Ruan Mei took a careful step closer. “Elara… listen to me. You need to stay grounded. Remember where you are. Who you are.”

“I’m here,” Elara whispered, “but also… there.”
Her voice layered — echoing, harmonizing with itself, as if two Elaras spoke from different planes. “They’re scared. They don’t understand me.”

“Who?” Herta demanded, even though she already knew.

Elara blinked, eyes glowing brighter — and for an instant, the station was gone.

Ruan Mei and Herta stood beneath an ocean of stars, time and matter stretched thin like glass. Titans of light stood in the distance — Aeons — their vast silhouettes rippling with power.
Each one turned, not toward them, but toward her.

Elara.

The smallest light among them.
The newborn Nova.

A deep vibration rolled through the void. Words that weren’t words, but meaning that bent the soul:

“THE NEW STAR BREATHES.”

Elara looked up at them — unafraid, even as the space around her began to splinter with color and force. Her voice, impossibly small yet cosmic, replied,

“Then why does it hurt?”

A ripple of silence followed. The kind of silence that feels like the breath before creation.

Then one of the Aeons stepped forward — form obscured, voice breaking through all comprehension:

“Because every dawn burns away a night.”

And with that, the vision shattered.

The medbay lights blazed back to life. Alarms screamed.

Elara collapsed to her knees, gasping, the glow fading from her eyes. Ruan Mei caught her instantly, pulling her close, trembling.

“It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Herta pressed her hands to the control panel, shouting over the sirens. “We need containment—whatever she just linked to, it’s massive.”

The console crackled, then every alarm cut out at once.

Across every screen, in soft lilac light, appeared a single line again:

THE AEONS HAVE TURNED THEIR GAZE.

Ruan Mei whispered, voice trembling, “She’s been seen.”

And outside, in the endless dark, one of the stars blinked again — slower this time.
Watching.

The medbay settled into an uneasy quiet. The alarms had died, the screens had gone still, but the air itself hummed — thick, almost solid with the weight of attention.

Ruan Mei held Elara close, rocking her gently. The little girl’s breathing was uneven, eyelids fluttering, her tiny fingers curling against Ruan Mei’s chest. She was just four, just a child — yet the residue of the event lingered like an echo of stars.

Herta didn’t move toward them. Instead, she planted herself between the pair and the viewport, eyes sharp. Her hands glowed faintly, running along the control panel and the walls, forming invisible sigils of protection. “Stay behind me,” she commanded, voice low but unshakable. “No matter what they do, you stay here.”

Ruan Mei swallowed, heart pounding. “Herta… what are we even protecting her from?”

Herta’s gaze didn’t waver from the viewport. “Everything. Gravity, reality, the stars themselves. She’s… she’s being watched — and some of them don’t understand what they’re looking at.”

The lights flickered. Then dimmed. Then flared brighter than before.

Outside, through the viewport, a single star pulsed — slow, deliberate. Its glow stretched into beams that bent around the station like liquid light, spilling inside the room. The space itself trembled.

Elara stirred, tiny voice soft, uncertain:
“The sky… it’s touching me again.”

Ruan Mei hugged her tighter. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Herta stepped closer, raising her hands. The energy around her expanded, a shimmering bubble of violet light that wrapped the three of them. The air rippled, bending around their sanctuary. The station groaned as if in protest — pipes rattling, panels flickering — yet Herta held firm, her sigils reinforcing themselves against the invisible weight pressing down.

A wave of light shot through the viewport, bending at impossible angles. Ruan Mei felt the pressure hit her chest like a physical hand. She stumbled, almost dropping Elara. Herta’s barrier shimmered brighter, the invisible threads of her magic locking around them.

“You’re safe,” Herta said, teeth gritted. “I swear it. You’re safe.”

Elara’s small hand reached up, brushing Ruan Mei’s cheek. “It’s… tickly,” she whispered. Her curls floated, tiny lilac sparks trailing from her hair.

The station trembled again. Gravity warped. Monitors bent, wires floated. The hum — that soft, mechanical lullaby — had grown into a low chord that vibrated through metal, bone, and air.

Ruan Mei whispered into her daughter’s hair, “I… I think they’re really here. The Aeons. They’re watching.”

Herta pressed a palm to Ruan Mei’s shoulder. “Then we hold the line. Keep her grounded. Keep us grounded. Nothing touches her while I’m here.”

Elara tilted her head, eyes glowing faintly. “Are they friends?”

Herta’s barrier pulsed in response to her tiny question. “Some of them might be. Some… don’t know yet.”

A sudden tremor shook the medbay. The viewport rippled, and the star blinked again — this time faster, multiple lights pulsing in sync, as if reality itself was responding to her presence.

Ruan Mei’s voice cracked. “Herta… it’s too much.”

“I know,” Herta said firmly, voice a shield in itself. “But you’re not facing it alone. None of you are.”

Elara giggled softly, a small, bright sound in the eye of cosmic chaos. “Mama, mommy… it’s singing.”

The three of them — mother's, child — formed a triangle of lilac light. Herta’s energy spiraled around them like a cage of starlight. Outside, the stars blinked in perfect rhythm with Elara’s heartbeat. The pressure, the weight, the gaze of uncountable cosmic eyes pressed down… and they held.

The universe had turned its gaze.
And Herta, with every ounce of strength and magic, was the shield standing between that gaze and the fragile four-year-old at the center of it.

The first stage had begun.

The medbay trembled, light and gravity bending in impossible arcs. Panels glitched, floating inches from the walls. Outside, the stars pulsed with lilac intensity, bending their light around the station as if trying to see inside.

Elara clutched Ruan Mei’s hand tightly, tiny body trembling. Her four-year-old voice was a whisper, cracking under fear. “Mama… the dark… it’s here again…”

Herta surged forward, wrapping herself around Ruan Mei and Elara like a living shield. Her arms glowed faintly violet, energy radiating outward, pushing back the bending reality. “Shhh… Mommy’s here. I won’t let it touch you,” she murmured, voice low and steady, a tether of warmth against the cosmic storm.

Elara whimpered, burying her face in Ruan Mei’s chest. Images from her nightmares — the void swallowing everything, the silence of the universe, being alone and unseen — pressed against her mind like invisible hands. Tears streaked her cheeks.

Ruan Mei pressed a hand to Elara’s hair, voice soft but unwavering. She began to hum — then sing, low and tender, the melody carefully wrapping around the girl’s trembling form. Each word, each note, was a thread of calm through the chaos: a song of connection, of hope, of light that could hold back even the weight of a star.

Elara’s sobs shook, tiny and broken, but the music wove around her, steady and unwavering. The bending air and pulsing lights softened where the lullaby touched, coiling like invisible ribbons of protection. She clutched Ruan Mei closer, hiccuping through tears, as the nightmare images began to melt away, replaced by the warmth of voices that would never abandon her.

Herta’s hands glowed brighter, wrapping a protective shell around them all. “I’ve got you, both of you,” she said, fierce and commanding. “Nothing in the stars or the void can touch this. Not while I’m here.”

Elara’s breath slowed. Her violet eyes, still shimmering with residual energy, blinked up at Ruan Mei. “Mama… it feels… soft,” she whispered.

“Yes, baby,” Ruan Mei replied, continuing the lullaby, each note anchoring the small child in the room — not just to the station, but to love, to Herta, to herself. Every fear, every lonely shadow from her nightmares, receded slightly, chased back by warmth, melody, and protection.

The station still trembled, but the storm had a calm eye now — the triangle of light and care formed by Herta, Ruan Mei, and Elara. Outside, the stars paused, as if waiting, observing, and listening. The universe seemed to bend around the song, matching its rhythm to the heartbeat of a four-year-old who was not alone.

Elara exhaled softly, a small giggle escaping. “I… I think… I’m safe now.”

Herta’s energy shimmered and softened around them, still protective, still immovable. “You always are, baby. Always.”

Ruan Mei pressed her forehead to Elara’s curls. “And we’ll sing this song together whenever the dark comes. You’re never alone. I promise.”

Even in the bending, chaotic medbay, the first stage of Elara’s ascension concluded: not with fear, but with courage, love, and the first real understanding that she could face the universe and still be held.

The stars outside pulsed once, slower now, as if approving. The hum of the station deepened, syncing with the child’s heartbeat. And in that fragile, lilac-lit calm, the universe learned something new: the small can hold infinite light.

The medbay settled into an uneasy quiet. The air still hummed, thick with lingering lilac energy from Elara’s heartbeat. Gravity had returned to something approximating normal, but the station still seemed… alive, listening, holding its breath.

Herta’s protective bubble had softened but remained, a faint shimmer wrapping around Ruan Mei and Elara. “We’ve got a moment,” she murmured, brushing stray curls from Elara’s glowing head. “Use it.”

Ruan Mei nodded, still holding her daughter, voice hushed. “Elara… the universe is listening now. And it’s trying to speak to you.”

Elara tilted her head, eyes blinking, still shimmering with the aftermath of her first ascension pulse. “It’s… whispering?”

Herta’s lips pressed together. “…More than that. It’s calling.”

Outside the viewport, the stars shifted. One by one, lights stretched, twisted, and coalesced into spiraling patterns of impossible geometry. The Aeons’ gazes pressed through space and matter, searching, curious, testing the bounds of the small station. Their attention was no longer abstract — it was active, pushing against the edges of reality itself.

Ruan Mei’s voice softened, trembling slightly. “It’s… following her heart. Every pulse she gives them… they answer.”

The medbay groaned as if under invisible weight. Monitors warped, panels drifted, lights flickered — the stars outside casting impossible shadows inside. Elara’s tiny form floated slightly above the floor, curls lifting in a dance of lilac sparks. Her eyes, two tiny galaxies, reflected infinity itself.

She whimpered softly, remembering flashes from her nightmares — the void, the dark swallowing everything familiar. Ruan Mei pressed a hand to her back, murmuring her lullaby again, steadying the child. Herta braced herself, placing a hand on Ruan Mei’s shoulder, forming a protective wall of energy around the three of them.

Then, the whispers began. Not words. Not sound.
Movement in thought.
Ripples of understanding, stretching through the station’s walls, brushing against minds, brushing against the fabric of existence.

Elara’s small voice cut through, fragile but firm. “They… they’re asking me to play with them?”

Ruan Mei’s heart skipped. “They’re not… dangerous, not yet. But they’re testing you.”

Herta’s energy flared brighter, cocooning them all. “Testing doesn’t mean we step back,” she said. “We hold the line. I hold the line. No one touches her while I’m here. Not you, not the void, not the stars themselves.”

Elara floated higher, arms stretching, a giggle escaping despite the tension. “Mama… Mommy… I can feel them!”

Ruan Mei whispered the lullaby again, soft and protective, weaving melody into the swirling lilac energy. Every note pressed back the chaos, every phrase anchored Elara’s tiny heart. The nightmare images — the cold dark of isolation — quivered, then recoiled, beaten back by the warmth of love and protection.

Outside, one of the Aeons tilted its impossible form, a ripple passing through the stars like a ripple across a pond. Another pulse, synchronized with Elara’s heartbeat, passed through the station. Monitors warped, walls bent, gravity pulled sideways — the Aeons’ presence pressing gently but insistently, coaxing the child toward her next stage.

Herta gritted her teeth, arms glowing like molten violet, holding everything together. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’ve got you both.”

Ruan Mei pressed her forehead to Elara’s curls. “You’re safe. You’re never alone. And whatever they want… we’ll face it together.”

The station trembled again. The stars pulsed. And somewhere, far away but close in intent, the universe leaned in, whispering to the child who was learning how to shine.

Elara’s eyes widened. “Mama… Mommy… I think… I can see them now.”

Herta’s arms flared brighter, shielding their fragile sanctuary as reality rippled violently. Ruan Mei tightened her hold. Together, the three of them — mother's, child — formed the only constant in a world bending under the gaze of infinite watchers.

And somewhere between lilac light and pulsing stars, the first true stage of Elara’s ascension began to speak back to the universe.

The medbay screamed in silence. Lights fractured into ribbons, panels twisted into impossible angles, and gravity swirled in unpredictable arcs. The hum of the station had grown into a deep, resonant chord that vibrated in Ruan Mei’s chest, in Herta’s hands, and in the very floor beneath them.

Elara hovered a few inches above the ground, curls spiraling with lilac sparks. Her tiny hands reached toward the bending walls, and when she touched them, the metal rippled like water, reshaping itself to her whims. She didn’t understand fully, but instinctively, the station obeyed her — the universe was listening.

“Baby!” Ruan Mei cried, rushing forward to grab her, but Herta stepped between them, arms flaring with protective energy. “Stay put! Don’t let her… accidentally hurt herself!”

Elara giggled, oblivious to the chaos she caused. “Mama… Mommy… it’s fun! Everything’s soft like clouds!”

“Fun,” Ruan Mei repeated, voice trembling, clutching her daughter’s tiny hands. “Yes, fun — but careful. You’re powerful… stronger than anything we’ve seen.”

The Aeons responded. Outside the viewport, constellations bent violently, light folding in on itself. Pulses of energy rippled through the station, threatening to tear the walls apart. Gravity warped, sending floating tools and panels spinning like debris in orbit.

Herta’s barrier flared with sudden intensity, strands of violet energy whipping outward. She pushed Ruan Mei and Elara behind her, her voice a roar against the cosmic tide. “I said no one touches her! Not the void, not the stars, not even the Aeons themselves!”

Ruan Mei pressed her forehead to Elara’s curls, whispering her lullaby under her breath. Each word wove threads of calm through the chaos: notes that bent space less violently, melodies that softened the lilac sparks, phrases that pushed back the remnants of nightmare still clinging to the child.

Elara’s eyes glimmered with understanding, a mixture of delight and fear. She squeezed Ruan Mei’s hand. “Mama… I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’ll never be alone,” Ruan Mei whispered, tears streaking her cheeks. “I’m here, Mommy’s here — we’re all here.”

The hum of the station deepened again, resonating with Elara’s heartbeat. Walls warped, lights bent, and gravity tugged sideways, but Herta’s energy acted as a stabilizing anchor. She gritted her teeth, every muscle taut, forcing the reality around them to obey just enough for them to survive.

Then a pulse hit — massive, overwhelming, as if the universe itself had leaned in to see the child. The station shuddered violently. Panels tore from their mounts, instruments floated, and the air seemed to vibrate with pure cosmic awareness.

Elara whimpered, instinctively clutching Ruan Mei’s chest. Her eyes glowed brighter than ever. “It… it’s too loud!”

Herta surged, energy lashing outward, wrapping the floating debris and bending light into a protective dome. “I’ve got you! Both of you! I will not let go!”

Ruan Mei wrapped Elara tighter, her voice firm yet trembling. “Remember the lullaby, baby. Remember our song. Close your eyes, breathe… we’re with you.”

Slowly, the chaos softened. The lilac sparks in Elara’s hair danced in harmony with the hum of the station. Gravity righted itself partially, the bending lights calmed into gentle arcs. The Aeons’ gaze lingered, still pressing, still testing — but the child’s heartbeat, Ruan Mei’s love, and Herta’s protection held them at bay.

Elara yawned, tiny voice soft. “Mama… Mommy… I… I’m okay now.”

Herta’s barrier dimmed to a soft shimmer, her arms trembling with exhaustion. “You are, baby. You are.”

Ruan Mei kissed the top of Elara’s curls. “You faced it, little one. The nightmares, the chaos… the universe itself. You’re safe now.”

Outside, the stars blinked, pulsing in time with Elara’s heartbeat. The Aeons’ attention remained, gentle now, curious but restrained, acknowledging the tiny Nova who had begun to master her first stage.

And in the calm that followed, the medbay glowed faintly lilac — a sanctuary of love, protection, and power, holding together the fragile balance between a four-year-old child and the infinite eyes of the universe.

The medbay was calm but alive, the soft hum of machinery now weaving with lilac light that pulsed gently around Elara. She floated a few inches above the floor, curls spiraling and tiny sparks trailing like fireflies in slow motion. The first stage of her ascension had passed, but the echoes remained — the universe’s attention had not withdrawn; if anything, it had grown more focused.

Elara’s violet eyes blinked, reflecting constellations outside the viewport. “Mama… Mommy… can I make it sing back?” she whispered, small fingers reaching toward the stars twisting inside the station.

Ruan Mei swallowed hard, holding her daughter close. “Baby… if you want to try, we’ll be right here.” She brushed Elara’s curls from her face, humming softly to keep the rhythm of the lullaby alive in the background, weaving comfort through the chaos.

Herta’s hands glowed brighter, energy flaring in concentric waves. “I’ll shield you both. Whatever you do… I will hold the line.” Her voice was steady, unyielding — a wall against reality itself.

Elara closed her eyes. The lilac sparks around her swirled faster, threads of light stretching outward. With a small, deliberate movement, she lifted her hands. The viewport walls bent like water, stars stretching and coalescing, forming ribbons of light that flowed into the medbay itself. The station trembled, but Herta’s barrier held firm, reshaping the energy around them like a cage of protective starlight.

“Look, Mama! Mommy! I’m… talking to them!” Elara’s voice was a mixture of delight and awe. Her tiny hands reached further, brushing at the ribbons of cosmic light, and the Aeons responded. Pulses of attention swirled around her, gentle at first, then insistent — curious, testing, teasing her newly awakened presence.

Ruan Mei pressed her cheek to Elara’s curls. “I see them, baby. They’re listening. The universe… it’s singing back to you.”

Herta’s barrier shimmered under the pressure. The energy outside pressed harder, bending reality, yet the protective shield held. “Focus, baby,” Herta urged. “Feel it, but don’t get lost in it. We’re right here. We’ve got you.”

Elara’s tiny hands wove through the ribbons of light, and for the first time, the station itself seemed to pulse in harmonywith her heartbeat. Gravity bent like liquid, light danced like silk, and the Aeons’ gaze — heavy, infinite, unknowable — finally paused, observing the child who had begun to command her first measure of cosmic power.

She giggled, a soft, lilac-laced sound that seemed to ripple through the very air. “They like me, Mama! Mommy… they like me!”

Ruan Mei smiled through tears. “Yes, baby. They do. But we’re here. Always. That’s why they can’t hurt you. You’re never alone.”

Herta’s shoulders shook with exertion, but her face was calm, fierce, unyielding. “And I’ll make sure they never do. Not while I breathe.”

Elara’s aura flared, tiny sparks dancing upward, coiling around the stars themselves. For the first time, she directed the energy intentionally, her small voice humming in time with the station, the universe, and the Aeons’ attention. It was chaotic, immense — and beautiful.

Ruan Mei and Herta watched, hearts in their throats, as their four-year-old child became the first Nova, the beginning of a luminous path stretching toward infinity. The station trembled, the stars leaned closer, and the universe itself — vast, eternal, and watching — held its breath.

And in that fragile, lilac-lit calm, the first dawn of the Nova had risen.

Chapter Text

The days following the resonance settled into a strange calm. The station hummed with a steadier pulse now, less mechanical, more organic — as if the walls themselves had learned to breathe.

Ruan Mei listened to that hum every morning; it reminded her of Elara’s heartbeat. For a week, the child-turned-miracle had slept peacefully, her aura quiet and contained, the chaos of the first transformation finally at rest.

Ruan Mei had decided that if peace wanted to visit, she would let it stay. She spent the early hours baking — well, assembling, since ovens in low-gravity were temperamental. A small cake floated inside a containment ring, whipped starlight cream circling the surface in weightless ribbons. Three candles spun slowly above it, shimmering with faint violet flames. She caught one between her fingers and smiled. “Perfect enough,” she whispered.

Behind her, the corridor lights brightened one by one, responding to the awakening of another day. It was November 5th — Elara’s birthday. Her first real one.

Herta, naturally, was not sentimental about birthdays. She slumped in her chair, lab coat askew, mug in hand. The monitors were steady streams of numbers and graphs that no longer surprised her. The girl’s readings had stayed almost boringly normal for days.

“Finally,” Herta muttered, “a week without cosmic fireworks.”

She reached for her mug just as the screen blinked. A line of text rewrote itself in glowing gold:

Subject N.O.V.A 001 — Age recalibration: 4 → 15.9 years

Stage II – Adolescent Phase active. Completion: 74 percent.

Herta blinked once. Twice.

Then the sensors erupted in cascading data.

She nearly spilled her tea. “Oh no you don’t—!” Her fingers flew across the console. “Ruan Mei! You might want to pause the birthday preparations — your daughter’s biology just aged up twelve years!”

Ruan Mei froze mid-stride. “What?” she gasped, clutching the cake. A quick glance at the nearest panel confirmed the impossible readings. She bolted down the hall, skirts fluttering around her knees, the faint scent of vanilla trailing behind.

The door slid open with a hiss of cool air.

The room was bathed in pale light.

On the bed lay a young woman.

For a moment Ruan Mei forgot to breathe. Elara’s hair spilled like a dark waterfall over the sheets, threaded with turquoise strands that caught the glow of the monitors. Her face — still unmistakably hers — was gentler now, refined by adolescence yet luminous with the same innocence. The small, fragile child she’d tucked in a week ago had transformed into something poised, radiant, grown.

“…Elara?” Ruan Mei whispered.

The girl stirred. Her eyes fluttered open — clear turquoise, touched with sleepy wonder. “Mama?” The word drifted out on a breath, soft and feathery, her voice flowing like a quiet melody.

Ruan Mei’s throat tightened. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

Elara smiled faintly, gaze unfocused as if still half-dreaming. “Like I’ve been floating for a long time,” she murmured. “But I’m back now.”

Over the intercom, Herta’s voice crackled.

“Ruan Mei! Congratulations, she’s officially skipped middle school. All vitals stable. Quantum structure — well, taller.”

“Herta,” Ruan Mei sighed, “maybe let me process before writing her college applications.”

“Just saying. Perfect readings. She’s fine. Slightly radiant, but fine.”

Ruan Mei brushed a lock of hair from Elara’s forehead. The girl leaned into her touch, warmth pulsing beneath her skin — a steady rhythm that matched the station’s hum. “Welcome back, my star,” she whispered.

Later, they gathered in the small lounge by the observation window. The universe beyond was still rearranging itself after the resonance — constellations twisting like slow fireworks. The cake hovered safely inside its stasis ring, candles spinning lazily.

Ruan Mei handed the plate over. “For you, my Nova.”

Elara blinked, eyes wide with delight. “It’s beautiful.” She folded her hands, the faint shimmer of energy tracing her fingertips. “Can I make a wish?”

“Always.”

She closed her eyes. The air shifted, glittering faintly as if listening. When she blew out the candles, the flames turned violet and burst into drifting motes that floated upward and vanished.

All across the station, lights dimmed for a heartbeat, then brightened in perfect unison — as though the entire structure had exhaled with her.

Herta’s dry tone came from a wall speaker. “You do realize she just synchronized the power grid with a birthday wish?”

Ruan Mei only smiled. “She’s special that way.”

Elara giggled, sound airy and musical. “Did I break it again?”

“No, sweetheart,” Ruan Mei said, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You just made it sing.”

When the celebration quieted, Elara curled on the couch, nibbling cake crumbs while staring at the stars. Ruan Mei sat beside her, fingers laced gently through hers. For a while neither spoke. The silence was full of heartbeat and starlight.

Finally, Herta appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. “She’ll need clothes,” she said matter-of-factly. “And her room looks like it belongs to a preschooler. I’m ordering replacements.”

Ruan Mei blinked out of her reverie. “Oh. Right. Growth spurt.”

“Cosmic puberty,” Herta corrected with a smirk. “I’ll handle logistics. You handle tailoring.”

Ruan Mei laughed softly. “Gladly.”

They moved back to the lab quarters. Herta tapped away at her tablet, scrolling through catalogs of uniforms, boots, and décor while muttering about shipping costs to a remote orbit. Meanwhile, Ruan Mei fetched her old sewing kit — silver needles, iridescent thread, and a soft tape measure coiled like a ribbon of light.

Elara stood obediently on the platform, blushing as her mother measured.

“Arms up, dear.”

Elara lifted them, giggling. “It tickles!”

Ruan Mei smiled. “You’ve grown so tall… just look at you.”

She noted each number carefully: shoulder, waist, inseam. Every measurement felt like proof that Elara was real, tangible, alive. The tiny miracle from the incubator was now a young woman before her eyes.

Across the room, Herta snorted. “She’s 168 centimeters. You realize she’s officially taller than you now?”

Ruan Mei ignored her. “And still perfect.” She glanced at Elara. “Would you like something simple or something that twirls?”

Elara’s eyes lit up. “Something that twirls, please.”

Herta groaned. “We’re running a research facility, not a fashion show.”

Ruan Mei threaded her needle with shimmering turquoise thread. “Then it will be a fashionable research facility.”

Elara laughed — a soft, flowing laugh that made the lights flicker faintly in rhythm. Even Herta’s smirk softened at the sound.

Later, when Elara had gone to rest again, the two scientists sat side by side, surrounded by rolls of fabric and open catalog windows.

Ruan Mei glanced at the sleeping girl through the glass. “She’s almost there,” she whispered. “Stage Two complete.”

Herta nodded, eyes thoughtful. “And somehow, still just a kid who wanted cake.”

Ruan Mei smiled, thread glinting between her fingers. “That’s the part worth protecting.”

The hum of the station deepened, wrapping them in quiet resonance. Outside, the stars pulsed once — a gentle acknowledgment of the birthday they had all just witnessed.

Log Entry — N.O.V.A. Project

Adolescent Phase stabilized. Emotional state balanced. Growth — satisfactory.

Recommended action: continue nurturing environment.

Research note (personal, unrecorded): She asked for a dress that twirls.

Chapter Text

The hum of the space station carried a different rhythm that morning — softer, warmer, as though the machinery itself was still in awe of the girl who had outgrown her own stars.

Artificial sunlight crept across the medbay floor, catching the lilac shimmer that always seemed to linger wherever Elara had been. She sat on her bed, wrapped in a borrowed lab coat that was far too big for her, sleeves rolled twice over just to free her hands. Her long curls spilled around her shoulders in glossy waves — brighter, silkier now — and her turquoise eyes followed the faint glow on her fingertips as she traced the air absentmindedly.

Herta leaned in the doorway, hair a little mussed from sleep but eyes sharp as ever. “You’re staring at your hands again,” she teased, voice dry but not unkind. “Still fascinated that you have proportional limbs now?”

Elara giggled, soft and musical — that new breathy tone she had developed, delicate as feathers. “They feel lighter. Like they remember something I don’t.”

“Poetic already,” Herta muttered, stepping in. “Ruan Mei, your experiment’s evolving into a philosopher.”

From the corner of the room, Ruan Mei was already watching Elara’s vitals flicker across a dozen translucent monitors. Her gaze was focused, but her smile was pure pride. “She’s stabilizing beautifully,” she murmured, fingers dancing over holographic sliders. “Energy output balanced. Synaptic patterns — symmetrical and complex. It’s as if her entire being matured overnight.”

Elara glanced between them, confused but smiling. “You make me sound like a plant that bloomed too early.”

Ruan Mei laughed — the kind of sound that made the air lighter. “In a way, you are. My favorite one.”

Later that morning, the trio gathered in Elara’s room, which looked a bit too small for her now. The bed, once the perfect size for a child, barely reached her knees. The plush toys lined along her shelf looked miniature beside her longer arms. Herta eyed the clutter and sighed. “We’re going to need bigger everything,” she said flatly. “This is what happens when you skip adolescence in seven hours.”

Ruan Mei brushed her hand along Elara’s hair, inspecting it under the light. “At least she’s not shedding cosmic dust anymore,” she mused. “Your aura’s harmonizing nicely.”

Elara tilted her head, smiling sheepishly. “Can I still have ribbons, though?”

Herta raised an eyebrow but motioned for her to sit down in front of the mirror. “Fine. Sit still. If we’re going to fix this bird’s nest, we might as well make it presentable.”

Elara obeyed instantly, sitting cross-legged on the chair. Ruan Mei handed over a small box of hair accessories — satin ribbons in pale lilac and ivory, fine combs, and clips shaped like stars. Herta rolled her eyes, but her hands were surprisingly gentle as she worked. She divided Elara’s glossy curls into sections, twisting them into soft twin braids that framed her face, leaving a few tendrils loose to soften the look. At the back, she wove the braids into a graceful loop, securing them with the lilac ribbons.

“There,” Herta said, stepping back. “Elegant but manageable. Try not to float upside down and ruin it.”

Elara turned her head from side to side, the ribbons catching the light like tiny galaxies. “It feels perfect, thank you mommy.” she whispered, touching the braids gently.

Herta’s composure faltered for half a second, her cheeks tinting faintly. “Don’t thank me yet. If I have to redo it after your ‘light pulse bursts,’ I’m making you bald.”

Ruan Mei watched quietly, her expression soft — a mixture of pride and awe. For all her theories and equations, nothing in her research could explain the beauty of seeing Herta’s steady hands create something so tender.

After breakfast, Ruan Mei set up a holographic measuring grid in the lab. “We need new clothes,” she announced. “The database says your uniform size is still listed as ‘child prototype.’ That simply won’t do.”

Elara hopped onto the platform, posing dramatically. “Ready, Mama! Project Fashion Nova commencing!”

Herta groaned from the console. “I hate that you’re learning her puns.”

Ruan Mei smirked. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy them.” She waved her hand, and the holographic grid wrapped gently around Elara’s body, scanning every contour and measurement. “Arms up, shoulders relaxed.”

Elara obeyed, but halfway through the process, she sneezed — a dainty, startled noise that made the grid flicker wildly. “Oops.”

Ruan Mei blinked as the display glitched, flashing numbers. “You disrupted the calibration.”

Herta didn’t even look up. “She sneezed data corruption. Truly a prodigy.”

Elara stuck out her tongue. “It’s not my fault I sparkle when I sneeze!”

They laughed together, the sound filling the sterile lab with something warm and human.

That afternoon, they gathered around Ruan Mei’s desk to browse catalogs of molecular fabrics and customizable clothing. Herta scrolled efficiently through lab-approved materials — practical, flame-resistant, devoid of style. Ruan Mei kept opening designs filled with flowing skirts and starlit embroidery. Elara, squished between them, sighed dramatically. “What if… both?”

Both women turned to her. Elara tapped the holographic screen, pulling elements from each design — the soft elegance of Ruan Mei’s, the structure of Herta’s — and merged them. The result was a fitted uniform-like dress with delicate lilac lines that glowed faintly under movement, the perfect blend of function and grace.

“Pragmatic,” Herta admitted.

“Beautiful,” Ruan Mei added.

Elara grinned. “Perfect.”

Ruan Mei saved the design under the name Project Luminous Attire, already thinking of the fabrics she had tucked away in storage. Herta noticed the glimmer in her eyes and sighed. “You’re going to sew it yourself, aren’t you?”

Ruan Mei’s smile was mischievous. “Naturally.”

Night fell quietly over the station. The artificial stars outside shimmered faintly through the observation window, and a serene hum filled the silence. Elara had already fallen asleep, her braid ribbons glowing softly against the pillow, her breath perfectly synchronized with the low thrum of the N.O.V.A. core beneath the station.

At the far side of the room, Ruan Mei worked at her sewing table, surrounded by fine threads and floating diagrams. Each thread seemed to react to Elara’s presence — pulsing gently in time with her heartbeat. Herta sat nearby, half-asleep in a chair, chin resting on her hand.

“You’re going to stay up all night again,” Herta murmured without opening her eyes.

“Only until the last seam is right,” Ruan Mei whispered back. “She’s… growing faster than I expected. I want her to have something made just for her.”

Herta cracked an eye open, watching the faint lilac glow reflecting off Ruan Mei’s glasses. “You’re hopeless.”

“Completely,” Ruan Mei admitted softly, smiling as she guided the thread through fabric that shimmered like captured starlight. “But she’s worth every moment.”

Herta’s lips curved faintly. “I know.”

The hum of the machine faded, replaced by the gentle rhythm of Elara’s breathing. Ruan Mei set down her needle, fingers tracing the edge of the half-finished dress — delicate, radiant, alive.

“She’s already halfway there,” Ruan Mei whispered, eyes softening as she looked toward Elara. “If this is what becoming an Aeon means… maybe she’s teaching us what humanity still can be.”

Herta didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. The faint smile lingering on her face said enough.

And for the first time in a long while, the station itself seemed to sigh — content, cradling its luminous miracle in quiet wonder.

The station was still, bathed in early golden light from the viewport. Ruan Mei had finally fallen asleep at her sewing table, head resting on folded arms, threads of lilac shimmer still tangled between her fingers. Herta slept in the chair beside her, posture impeccable even in dreams.

Elara stirred first. She blinked, stretching, her braids a little messy but still shining softly. Her gaze drifted to the corner — and there, under the lab’s glow, was the half-finished dress.

She slipped out of bed, bare feet padding quietly across the floor. The fabric shimmered as she touched it — not just glowing but alive, pulsing faintly with her own resonance.

Ruan Mei mumbled in her sleep, “Almost done…”

Elara smiled, a tender curve of lips. “It’s beautiful, Mama,” she whispered. “I’ll finish the last stitch with you next time.”

She looked back toward the viewport, the stars reflecting in her turquoise eyes. “We’re all still growing,” she murmured — half to herself, half to the universe listening beyond the glass.

And for that one peaceful morning, the cosmos seemed content to let them simply be.

Chapter Text

The artificial morning lights brightened with a gentle hum, sliding across the medbay in soft strips of lilac and gold. A week had passed since Elara stepped fully into her new outfit—her first real symbol of independence—and yet Herta still jumped every time she turned a corner and found Elara floating two inches off the ground or glittering with faint star-dust.

Ruan Mei had adapted quicker, of course. She’d cooed over the capelets and the motifing, declaring it “perfectly metaphysical,” while Herta muttered something about “responsibility for sparkly teenagers” under her breath.

Today, Elara twirled in front of the glass panel like a dancer greeting her own reflection.

“Do you think the constellations look better tilted like this?” she asked, flipping the edge of her skirt up so the embroidered galaxies caught the light.

Herta answered without looking up from her tablet. “Elara, sweetheart, it’s stunning. It’s always stunning. Everything you do is stunning. Your very existence is a cosmic conspiracy against my ability to concentrate.”

Elara beamed. “Thank you!”

Ruan Mei laughed softly into her tea. “She means that lovingly.”

Before Herta could protest, her tablet chimed—sharp, crystalline, and unmistakably Black Swan-coded.

Herta blinked.

“That’s… weird. She doesn’t usually call unless something’s unraveling.”

Ruan Mei’s eyebrow arched. “Or unless she wants something.”

Elara gasped dramatically. “Maybe she found a new memory monster!”

“Maybe.” Herta swiped open the message. Her eyes widened. “Okay… what?”

Ruan Mei leaned in. “What does it say?”

“It just says: We require your presence immediately for assistance. It concerns a human who arrived unexpectedly. Do not panic. She is stable but unusual. Bring Elara. Signed, politely, Black Swan.”

Elara perked up. “A new person?!”

Ruan Mei set her tea aside. “A human who arrived unexpectedly… from where?”

Herta turned the device toward both of them.

“At the bottom she added: P.S. She came from Earth. Don’t worry—we didn’t break time. Probably.”

Ruan Mei stared. “…Black Swan’s version of reassurance never actually reassures.”

“She said probably,” Elara echoed, utterly delighted. “That means something interesting is happening!”

Herta scrubbed her face. “Why do I feel like we’re about to adopt another teenager?”

Ruan Mei clasped her hands. “Because we are extremely adoptable parents.”

Herta groaned. “We are not— okay, fine, yes, we are.”

Elara bounced on her heels. “Let’s go let’s go let’s go!”

Within minutes, the three of them were walking the curved corridor toward the diagnostic wing—Herta in brisk, suspicious strides; Ruan Mei thoughtful and serene; and Elara swinging her arms like she was marching toward an adventure that already loved her.

The door slid open with a soft hiss.

Inside stood Acheron, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Black Swan beside her, tablet in hand, unfazed as ever.

And on the medical cot—sat a girl about Elara’s age.

Silver-lilac hair.

Eyes that shimmered with the multicolored mosaic of Black Swan’s irises, but sharp as Acheron’s.

Aura faintly rippling.

Posture wary… and exhausted.

Celestine.

Black Swan smiled warmly. “Ah! You came. Lovely. This is the ‘unexpected human.’”

Acheron nudged Black Swan with an exasperated sigh. “Just tell them.”

Black Swan cleared her throat. “She fell through a temporal convergence in Utah. She is alive, healthy, and extremely polite. She also might be important in a… cosmically narrative way.”

Celestine deadpanned, “Please don’t let her explain anything else. I’m still adjusting to the fact that I apparently crossed galaxies in my sleep.”

Herta whispered to Ruan Mei: “Dark humor. She has dark humor. I am terrified.”

Ruan Mei whispered back: “I love her already.”

Elara stepped forward, eyes wide and bright and soft all at once.

“Hi,” she said, voice gentle, almost reverent—as if she sensed something familiar in Celestine’s aura. “I’m Elara. Want to be friends?”

Celestine blinked.

Acheron looked alarmed. Black Swan looked interested.

Herta looked resigned.

And Celestine…

Celestine slowly smiled.

“I would like that,” she said. “Very much.”

The lights overhead flickered—not dangerously, not ominously, but like two stars recognizing each other across the void.

And just like that—

this was the moment the universe shifted.

Two futures brushing hands for the first time.

The diagnostic wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm metal, a sterile calm that hummed underneath the low, steady pulse of the space station. Herta’s hands moved with practiced precision, scanning panels and adjusting monitoring devices as if orchestrating a quiet symphony of technology. Ruan Mei hovered nearby, fingers tracing the air as holographic data swirled around her — each reading flickering like a constellation in her mind.

Celestine sat on the cot, legs dangling over the edge, lavender hair catching the soft lights like woven threads of starlight. Her eyes were wide, scanning everything — the monitors, the faint shimmering of the walls, the devices that hummed with lilac energy. A subtle blush crept into her cheeks as she noticed Elara hovering nearby, curls bouncing softly with the girl’s excitement.

“Okay,” Herta began, voice brisk but not unkind, “first, let’s make sure you’re… actually fine. Heart rate, energy levels, aura stabilization. Nothing weird that would make me regret agreeing to see you.”

Celestine nodded, swallowing the nervous lump in her throat. “Fine. Totally fine. Normal. I’m normal.” Her hands fidgeted with the charms on her bracelet, the tiny metallic clinks soft but reassuring. “Mostly.”

Ruan Mei’s smile was quiet, but full of curiosity. “We’ll see,” she said. “Everything here is designed to detect subtle cosmic fluctuations. Even the tiniest anomaly in your energy signature will light up our sensors.”

Celestine’s violet-lilac eyes met Elara’s, and something unspoken passed between them — a spark of recognition, maybe, or just the instant comfort of meeting someone who seemed like they could understand the weirdness of existing across worlds. Elara tilted her head, curls shifting, and grinned.

“Hi!” she said softly, hovering closer. “I’m Elara. Don’t worry, we’re not scary. Mostly.”

Celestine blinked, startled at first — she wasn’t used to anyone calling her out like that with such casual warmth. But Elara’s smile was infectious. Slowly, Celestine let a small, hesitant smile slip through.

“I… I’m Celestine,” she replied, voice soft, careful. “Nice to meet you.”

Elara’s grin widened. “Nice to meet you, too! Want to see the monitors? They’re kinda like… space windows into you.”

Celestine tilted her head. “Windows into me?”

“Yes!” Elara bounced gently in place, her ribbons fluttering. “Like, you can see your own magic stuff. Or your heart. Or whatever floats around in here.”

Herta’s lips twitched at the corner. “I don’t usually allow strangers to touch live panels. But… you’re Elara-approved. I’ll let it slide.”

Celestine’s eyes widened in awe as she leaned forward. The holographic displays shimmered softly under Ruan Mei’s careful adjustments, showing energy flows, pulse patterns, and faint cosmic ripples she didn’t yet understand.

“This… this is amazing,” she whispered. Her fingers hovered over the edge of the display, itching to interact.

Elara floated beside her, whispering, “It’s okay. You can touch. But gently. Don’t break the universe. That’s my job.”

The words made Celestine giggle, the tension in her shoulders melting just a little. She reached out, and a faint glow rippled across the monitors in response to her touch — a soft, living pulse that made the lights in the room hum in harmony.

Herta’s brow rose slightly, noting the subtle reaction. “Interesting. Your energy signature… stable, but responsive. Very unusual for someone just arriving. You’ve clearly been… influenced by a strong field, or something like it.”

Ruan Mei’s gaze lingered on the data. “And yet perfectly balanced. Nothing chaotic, nothing corrosive. You’ve been handled, in a sense — nurtured, or protected. That’s rare.”

Celestine’s blush deepened, but she allowed herself a small laugh. “Protected, huh? That sounds… nice.”

Elara reached over and brushed a strand of lavender hair from Celestine’s face. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be scared here. I… like meeting new friends.”

Celestine’s heart fluttered. She had expected chaos, confusion, maybe even fear. But this — this was soft. Gentle. Light, in a way that made her almost forget she had just been pulled from Earth into a space station halfway across the galaxy.

Acheron stood a few steps back, observing quietly. Her sharp gaze softened fractionally as she noted the two girls interacting, a subtle acknowledgment in her posture that something profound was happening. Black Swan leaned lightly against a console, golden eyes glimmering. Her voice was soft but precise.

“Friendships formed under cosmic anomalies… they rarely remain trivial,” she remarked, almost to herself.

Elara grinned at Celestine again. “We’re going to be okay. Really. I promise. You’re gonna like it here.”

Celestine’s lips curved into a genuine smile for the first time in what felt like forever. “Yeah… I think I already do.”

Ruan Mei floated a small container of stabilizing energy gel toward Celestine, and Herta began scanning vitals more closely. But the real moment lingered between the two girls, hovering in the air like a quiet pulse of stars — a promise, almost unspoken, that they would navigate whatever this universe threw at them, together.

The medbay’s soft hum was punctuated by the faint clicks of Herta’s instruments, a quiet rhythm that seemed to synchronize with the subtle pulses of the station itself. Celestine sat cross-legged on the examination table, lavender hair tumbling across her shoulders, fingers twisting nervously in her charm bracelet. Her violet eyes flickered between the softly glowing monitors and the two women hovering near her, each a mixture of focus and concern.

Herta scrolled through the holographic health files, brow furrowing slightly. “Interesting,” she muttered, not looking up. “Her vitals are mostly stable — slightly elevated pulse from excitement or… nerves. Respiratory patterns clean. But…” Her finger hovered over a small note. “Low hemoglobin. Mild anemia. Iron deficiency.”

Celestine’s lips pressed together in a nervous smile. “Oh… that explains the tired spells, I guess.” Her fingers twined tighter around the bracelet, the soft metallic chimes punctuating her unease.

Ruan Mei floated closer, eyes scanning the same files. “Not dangerous,” she said softly, “but it explains subtle fatigue and delayed energy recovery. Nothing a proper regimen couldn’t improve. Still… we’ll want to monitor it closely while she acclimates.”

Elara’s turquoise eyes widened with curiosity. “Anemia? That sounds… like a human thing.” She tilted her head. “Like needing more iron or… spinach?”

Celestine snorted softly, the tension easing. “Yeah, basically. Lucky me, right? Suddenly I’m not just magical—I’m dietary.”

Herta’s lips quirked faintly. “Don’t make me start recommending kale shakes in zero-gravity.”

The laughter eased the atmosphere, allowing Celestine to relax. She glanced at Elara, who floated slightly above the floor, curls bouncing with every movement. The young girl’s presence was calming, yet thrilling — a strange mirror of energy that Celestine felt drawn toward.

“You know,” Elara said softly, hovering closer, “I think your aura’s kinda like… sparkly night sky dust. Not dangerous. Just… bright.”

Celestine’s eyes widened. “My aura? Sparkly night sky dust?” A nervous laugh slipped out, but the warmth of it was real. “That’s… actually… nice. I didn’t know I had… brightness.”

Ruan Mei’s voice softened as she gestured to a floating readout. “Celestine, your energy is unique. Responsive, stable, but… sensitive. That’s why we’ll track everything carefully.” She traced a line of lilac light along the monitor. “Your heart, your aura, even subtle shifts in iron levels… they’re all interconnected here. Nothing alarming, just… important.”

Celestine nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I think… I can handle that. If you help me, I mean.”

Elara’s grin widened. “Of course! That’s what friends do. I’ll show you the fun stuff, like which lights flicker when you move. It’s kinda like… cosmic hide-and-seek.”

Celestine’s laughter rang out, soft but unrestrained this time. “Cosmic hide-and-seek? You really live in a different universe, don’t you?”

Herta allowed herself a small smile, shaking her head. “She’s… relentless.”

Even Acheron, who had been observing quietly from the back, tilted her head almost imperceptibly. Her violet eyes softened as she noted the connection forming between the two girls — a quiet, unspoken bond, luminous against the sterile glow of the medbay.

Black Swan leaned slightly against a console, golden eyes glimmering with a rare warmth. “The universe… seems to approve,” she murmured, voice soft. “Or perhaps it simply favors those who recognize its echoes early.”

Celestine glanced at Elara again, letting the small warmth spread in her chest. The fear of arriving in a strange place, of being so far from home, began to dissolve under the gentle constancy of these strange new friends.

Ruan Mei’s fingers danced through the holographic interface, adjusting a few readings and noting Celestine’s low iron as a parameter to monitor. “We’ll get you stabilized,” she said softly, “and make sure your energy keeps up with your… adventurous spirit.”

Elara floated closer, brushing her braid over Celestine’s shoulder. “See? Nothing scary here. You’re already part of our team.”

Celestine smiled, a genuine, quiet kind of happiness that had been missing since she’d arrived. “Okay… I think I like being part of this team.”

The monitors flickered gently, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat in the room, as if the station itself had noticed. Lights shimmered in response to Celestine’s aura, intertwining with Elara’s playful sparks, and for a moment, the medbay felt less like a lab and more like a small corner of the universe made just for them.

And somewhere beyond the viewport, the stars seemed to shimmer a little brighter, acknowledging the quiet connection forming between the new friends — two luminous points of potential, orbiting each other across the void.

The medbay hummed quietly, the soft lilac glow from Elara’s aura lingering like a gentle tide against the sterile walls. Celestine leaned back against the edge of the examination cot, bracelets jingling softly with each fidgeting movement, her lavender hair spilling over the edge. She had already begun to relax — the initial awe of the station and its guardians giving way to a cautious curiosity.

Elara hovered near her, curls bouncing with a lightness that made the girl seem almost weightless. “You’re… kind of amazing,” Elara said softly. “Your aura… it’s calm but sparkling.”

Celestine smiled faintly, warmth blooming in her chest. “Thanks. You… make it easier to breathe here. I mean, I trust you already. You’re… nice.”

Ruan Mei’s fingers traced the air over the monitors, adjusting subtle energy readings. “Trust… forms quickly in unusual circumstances,” she observed, voice soft. “It’s rare, but not unwelcome.”

Herta crossed her arms, though her gaze softened as she watched the two girls. “Just don’t let the glow make you float through the ceiling yet.”

Celestine laughed softly, shaking her head. “No promises, but I’ll try.” She hesitated, then glanced at Ruan Mei and Herta, her expression earnest. “I… I think you should know something. About my world.”

Ruan Mei’s brow lifted. “Go on.”

Celestine took a deep breath, the vibration of her pulse matching the lilac shimmer around Elara. “Where I’m from… you’re… part of a game. A video game called… ‘Honkai: Star Rail.’ I… I know that sounds insane, but it’s true. I saw it. I’ve… lived it from the other side, as a player, but… you’re real here. I think…” She paused, watching their reactions carefully. “I think you’re… actually alive.”

Elara’s eyes widened, curiosity and awe colliding. “A… game?” she whispered. “You mean, like… people in your world played us?”

Celestine nodded, hands twisting her bracelet. “Yeah. And… I never saw you, Elara. Not in the game. Maybe you don’t exist there? Or… they haven’t added you yet.” Her lips curved faintly. “But… that’s why I trust you. I mean, if you were fake, like the others in the game, I… wouldn’t feel this way.”

Ruan Mei’s gaze softened, fingers stilling in midair. “You’re sharing something… deeply personal,” she murmured. “And choosing to trust us. That’s… remarkable.”

Herta inclined her head, expression calm but curious. “So… you’ve experienced our world as fiction, and yet you still see its reality now. That… makes you unique.”

Celestine’s eyes flicked to Elara again, and for the first time, the tension she had carried since Earth felt lighter, almost as if it had evaporated into the medbay’s soft lights. “I wanted you to know,” she said quietly. “Because… I feel safe here. And I… think I can learn from you. I want to belong.”

Elara floated closer, tiny curls brushing the edge of Celestine’s shoulder. “You do belong,” she whispered. “I mean… we’re friends now. I can show you things. And maybe… you’ll like this universe better than the game one.”

A quiet hum vibrated through the medbay, as if the station itself acknowledged the trust forming — an invisible pulse linking the three girls in delicate resonance. Even Herta and Ruan Mei exchanged a glance, a subtle agreement that this new connection, fragile as it was, needed space to grow.

Ruan Mei smiled softly. “Then we’ll help you adjust. Step by step. And we’ll make sure your body and energy stay healthy in the meantime.”

Herta’s gaze softened faintly. “We’ll keep an eye on you. No more surprises, right?”

Celestine chuckled, letting herself relax against the cot. “Promise. Well… mostly. I can’t guarantee the cosmic aura part, though.”

Elara laughed, and the sound bounced across the medbay, mingling with the gentle hum of machinery. “We’ll survive it. Right?”

Celestine nodded, a small but genuine smile lighting her face. “Yeah. I think we will.”

The monitors pulsed gently in response to the girls’ laughter, tiny cosmic ripples intertwining Celestine’s aura with Elara’s. Somewhere beyond the viewport, stars twinkled faintly — small witnesses to the first real bonds of trust in a strange new universe.

As the medbay lights shimmered softly, lilac and gold blending in the quiet hum of the station. Celestine perched on the edge of the examination table, now feeling lighter in both body and spirit, her pulse steady as she glanced between Ruan Mei and Herta.

Herta tapped at the final readings on the holographic monitors. “Anemia’s mild. Nothing critical. With some iron-rich supplements and proper meals, your energy levels should stabilize quickly. No dramatic fainting spells unless you push yourself too hard.” Her lips quirked faintly. “You’ll have to stick to the plan, but I’m sure you can handle it.”

Celestine nodded, the lavender strands of hair bouncing slightly as she sat up straighter. “Got it. No fainting, lots of iron, check.” She smirked. “Honestly… I’m glad you’re all so… thorough.”

Ruan Mei floated closer, adjusting a few soft lilac pulses around Celestine’s aura, smoothing out minor energetic turbulence. “We’ll help you acclimate. Your energy, your health, even the cosmic nuances of your aura — we’ll make sure everything aligns.” Her voice softened as she added, “You’re not alone here.”

Celestine’s eyes flicked to Elara, whose turquoise gaze glimmered with quiet excitement. “I like you,” Celestine said quietly. “You… make it feel easier. Like I’m not just… floating through a dream.”

Elara floated closer, curls bouncing with each tiny motion. “I like you too!” she said, beaming. “I can show you all the fun lights, and… maybe you can teach me some things from your world?”

Celestine laughed, a soft, light sound that made the medbay feel warmer. “Sure. But only if you promise not to make me glow upside down like you.”

Herta allowed herself a faint smile, shaking her head at the exchange. “You two are… something else. Just don’t get carried away and crash the medbay.”

Black Swan observed from the console, golden eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “Trust… grows faster than expected,” she murmured. “And perhaps it is well-earned.”

Ruan Mei adjusted the last of the floating energy threads around Celestine, smoothing a few minor irregularities. “Your readings are stable. Everything looks good.” She glanced at Herta, then back to Celestine. “Rest if you need it. We’ll continue monitoring, but there’s no immediate concern.”

Celestine exhaled, leaning back against the table. “Okay… I think I can manage that. I mean… with you guys here, it feels… safe. Really safe.”

Elara floated just above her, curling a tiny braid around her finger. “I’ll be here! And… we can play cosmic hide-and-seek after meals.”

Celestine laughed again, the sound ringing through the medbay like faint chimes. “Alright, cosmic hide-and-seek it is.”

The monitors pulsed faintly, lights flickering in harmony with the girls’ laughter. Somewhere beyond the viewport, distant stars shimmered in quiet approval, tiny points of light acknowledging the new bonds forming aboard the station.

Herta leaned back, arms crossed but eyes soft. “Well… looks like we’ve survived the first session. Without incident.”

Ruan Mei smiled faintly, her gaze lingering on the two girls. “And perhaps… we’ve witnessed the first spark of friendship in this strange, expanding universe.”

Celestine glanced at Elara, the hint of a grin tugging at her lips. “First spark… I like that. I think… this is the start of something good.”

Elara floated closer, nudging her shoulder gently. “The best start ever.”

The station hummed around them, soft and steady, a lullaby of machinery and cosmic energy. For a moment, the medbay felt like a small universe in itself — safe, luminous, and full of possibilities.

And in that gentle, shared quiet, Celestine knew she had found a place where she could belong.

The lilac glow of Elara’s aura intertwined faintly with Celestine’s own soft shimmer, tiny threads of cosmic light weaving them together in a subtle, radiant promise.

For the first time since she had arrived, the stars outside felt like home.

Chapter Text

The corridor outside the medbay felt like someone had turned the gravity dial slightly to wonder.

Elara floated ahead of everyone, little curls bouncing, hands flung out like she was directing traffic for invisible starlings. Celestine followed carefully—walking, not floating—but every few steps a faint ripple shimmered under her boots, like the floor was greeting her.

Herta frowned at the readings scrolling across her tablet.

Ruan Mei clasped her hands behind her back, walking with the soft smile of a scientist who just discovered a unicorn and immediately decided to adopt it.

Acheron and Black Swan lingered at the rear, their steps perfectly in sync despite their wildly different auras.

“Okay,” Herta said, fixing her glasses, “rule number one: nobody touches any glowing anomalies without telling me first.”

Celestine nodded. “Got it.”

Elara cheerfully replied, “I will absolutely maybe listen to that!”

Herta sighed so deeply she nearly dropped an octave.

Ruan Mei hid a laugh behind her fingertip. “Perhaps we should take her to the observation atrium. It’s quiet, open, and… stable. Usually.”

Celestine slowed her steps, eyes widening. “Observation atrium? Like… a giant window to space?”

Elara spun mid-air. “YES!! It’s the BEST place! The stars look like they’re breathing!”

The floor beneath Celestine’s feet flickered—just a tiny pulse, like her awe tugged at the environment. Black Swan’s eyebrow twitched with interest.

Acheron murmured, “Her emotional resonance is amplifying the station again.”

Black Swan replied lightly, “Mm. Delightful.”

Herta pinched the bridge of her nose. “Delightful for who—? You know what, never mind.”

They rounded the corner—

—and the doors parted to reveal the atrium in all its open, cosmic glory.

Endless starlight spilled through the dome-glass. Nebulae coiled in sweeping colors. Streams of golden dust streaked like paint.

Celestine stopped in her tracks.

Her breath lifted out of her chest like a feather.

“…oh,” she whispered. “Oh, wow.”

Elara twirled beside her, cape fluttering like a tiny galaxy. “Right?! It’s like the universe is singing!”

Ruan Mei’s eyes softened. “This space tends to bring out… truths.”

Black Swan hummed. “It certainly brings out resonance.”

As if to prove it, a soft shimmer radiated from Celestine’s shoulders—barely visible, like a ripple in heated air.

Acheron stepped forward, tone calm but razor-aware. “Your power is stabilizing. But it’s reacting to Elara.”

Elara blinked. “Reacting? Like… fun reacting? Or explosion reacting?”

“A bit of both,” Black Swan said sweetly.

Herta turned to the two teenagers with the same expression a teacher has when she knows her students are up to cosmic nonsense.

“Okay. You two. No laser light shows. No accidental wormholes. And for the love of the Aeons—no synchronized emotional catastrophes.”

Celestine flushed. “I’m literally just standing here.”

Elara giggled. “Standing dramatically.”

Celestine elbowed her gently. Elara giggled louder.

Black Swan whispered to Acheron, “They’re adorable.”

Acheron muttered, “…and dangerous.”

Ruan Mei stepped forward, hands clasped in delight. “Actually—this gives me an idea.”

Herta groaned. “NO.”

But it was too late.

Ruan Mei’s ideas were never small.

Within minutes, they’d moved to a lower lab—bright, open, and surrounded by gentle containment fields humming like sleepy bees. The whole setup was so soft and nonthreatening that even Herta couldn’t complain.

(Well, she tried. Twice.)

Elara sat on a hover stool, swinging her legs. Celestine sat across from her at a second stool, clutching the edge so she wouldn’t slide.

Ruan Mei dimmed the lights, adjusted the holographic panels, and lifted two shimmering orbs.

“Elara,” she said gently, “I want you to glow. Just a little.”

Elara nodded proudly. “Okay!”

FWIP.

A soft lilac aura bloomed around her, drifting like candle smoke underwater.

Celestine inhaled sharply. Her own aura—barely visible before—responded in a faint shimmer, lilac-tinted and star-speckled.

Ruan Mei’s eyes lit up. “Exactly as I thought.”

Herta narrowed her eyes. “You thought WHAT?”

“That their energies recognize each other,” Ruan Mei said, hands clasped. “They’re harmonizing.”

Celestine blinked. “Harmonizing how? Like… friends-hugging-energy? Or… uh… dangerous?”

Ruan Mei shook her head. “Not dangerous. Just responsive. Elara’s aura is… calling. And yours is answering.”

Elara reached out her hand gently.

Celestine hesitated—

Then placed her hand in Elara’s.

WHOOMPH.

Soft light burst around their fingers, swirling like two galaxies brushing arms.

The containment field shivered.

Acheron stepped forward, hand on her sword.

Black Swan’s eyes gleamed, fascinated.

Herta shouted, “DON’T BREAK ANYTHING!”

Ruan Mei was already scribbling notes with unholy joy.

Celestine gasped softly.

Elara whispered, “See? I knew we matched.”

The light faded as quickly as it came—leaving both girls breathless but unharmed.

Celestine blinked at her glowing fingers.

“Elara… did we just… do something?”

Elara shrugged with a dazzling grin. “Probably!”

Ruan Mei nearly vibrated. “More than something—you synchronized. Which means—”

Black Swan cut in gently, “They are connected now. Deeply. The universe does not create harmony without purpose.”

Celestine swallowed. “Connected… how?”

Black Swan gave a mysterious little smile.

Ruan Mei gave a scientific smile.

Herta gave a panicked parent smile.

Acheron stared at them with mild horror.

And Elara?

Elara squeezed her hand again and said,

“Don’t worry! I think it means we’re cosmic buddies.”

Celestine laughed—a real, bright laugh.

“Cosmic buddies,” she repeated softly. “That… I can handle.”

Later, when things had calmed down (relatively speaking), Celestine stood alone in the observation atrium again, looking out at the endless void.

Her reflection shimmered faintly on the glass—lavender hair, soft glow, tired eyes that no longer seemed quite so lost.

Behind her, Elara floated quietly, not wanting to startle her.

“You okay?” Elara asked gently.

Celestine nodded. “Yeah. Just… thinking. About how weird and amazing this all is.”

A soft pulse flickered outside the glass.

A star—no, something behind the star—responded to them.

Elara drifted closer. “The universe is looking back, you know.”

Celestine swallowed. “At me?”

“At both of us,” Elara whispered. “At what we’re becoming.”

Celestine exhaled slowly. “That’s… scary.”

Elara smiled. “That’s… exciting.”

They stood side by side—one floating, one grounded—watching the cosmos ripple faintly, as if something immense was shifting far beyond their sight.

Somewhere deep in the station, a sensor chimed.

Ruan Mei lifted her head.

Herta froze.

Black Swan smiled knowingly.

Acheron’s hand drifted toward her sword again.

Something had awakened.

Something tied to both girls.

Something bright.