Location: The Flickerfox
The hum of the Flickerfox’s engines was the only sound in his quarters. Ace sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, staring at the book in his hands like it might vanish if he blinked too long.
Vinorl had pressed it into his palms before they parted. The leather was worn smooth at the corners, and the binding barely held together. His thumb traced the edge of the cover, hesitant, as if touching it too roughly might erase her words. His mother’s words.
Ace drew a slow breath, the kind he took before a fight, and opened the first page:
The elders made me sit still again today.
They painted my hands red and said the pattern was good.
I didn't see anything. It just looked like paint.
They tell me to listen when they whisper,
but I don't hear what they hear.
I only hear my own breath.
Sometimes I wish they would look at the others instead.
When they look at me, it feels heavy,
like I did something wrong just by being here.
They keep saying I'm meant for something.
I don't know what that means.
I just want to run in the forest,
but they say that's a waste.
I don't think it's a waste.
— Orryn, Age 10
