The replies didn't come all at once.
They never did.
Noah watched them arrive in waves—slow, deliberate, each one heavier than the last. The phone stayed silent for minutes at a time, then vibrated once, as if someone on the other end had thought very carefully before committing.
He didn't answer immediately.
That was rule one.
The Language That Never Aged
The first message was short.
"Alive?"
No punctuation.
No sender.
Noah typed back two letters.
"Yes."
The reply came almost instantly.
"Confirmed?"
He closed his eyes.
"…Yeah," he murmured, then typed:
"Saw her."
The phone went still.
Somewhere, someone had just sat down.
They Ask the Same Question Differently
Another message followed ten minutes later.
"Is she compromised?"
Noah hesitated.
That one mattered.
He thought of her hands steady on his ribs.
Her eyes when she told him to swear.
The way the facility had bent around her without a single command spoken.
He typed:
"No."
After a pause, he added:
"But she's visible."
Three dots appeared.
Vanished.
Reappeared.
Then:
"That's worse."
Noah didn't disagree.
Names That Hurt to Read
The next messages came with identifiers.
Call signs Noah hadn't seen since memorial walls went up.
"Rook checking in."
"Echo received."
"Still breathing, kid?"
His throat tightened.
"…They're all awake," he whispered.
And once awake, they wouldn't go back to sleep easily.
What They Want to Know
Every message circled the same gravity well.
Is she safe?
Is she alone?
Does she want us there?
Noah stared at the last one.
That was the question he couldn't answer.
He typed carefully.
"She didn't ask."
The response came slower this time.
"She never does."
Aria Knows Before He Tells Her
She felt it in the building's bones.
In the way the air seemed to thrum, like a held breath stretched across distances.
"…They're talking to you now," she thought.
Not accusation.
Certainty.
She leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
"…You never learned to whisper," she murmured.
The First Boundary Is Tested
The phone buzzed again.
This time, a location pin appeared.
Followed by a message:
"We're close."
Noah's pulse jumped.
"…No," he muttered.
He typed back immediately.
"Do not approach."
Three seconds passed.
Then:
"Too late to turn around."
Noah Makes a Choice
He deleted the message thread.
Not because it would erase anything.
But because it bought him a moment.
He sat up as far as his ribs would allow and stared at the door.
"…I promised," he said quietly.
Promised her.
Promised himself.
He opened a new message.
Typed one line.
"She didn't call you."
Then another.
"Wait."
Closing Beat
Across cities and borders, people paused.
Hands on steering wheels.
Feet on airport tiles.
Fingers hovering over locks they hadn't touched in years.
They waited.
Because the message hadn't come from her.
And if there was one thing they all remembered—
It was that when she wanted you there,
She never needed a signal.
She just appeared.