The next morning, I woke to find Hope already at the kitchen table.
She was writing. Long, careful letters. Her handwriting neat but shaky. The kind of shaky that comes from hands that want to write faster than they can. From thoughts spilling out faster than fingers can follow.
"What are you doing?" I asked softly. My chest felt tight. That parental instinct that something important was happening. Something I needed to pay attention to.
"Writing letters. To people like me. Other children Marcus hurt. Other people the Consortium tried to optimize. Other—" She paused. Bit her lip. A gesture so childlike it made my heart ache. "Other different people. I am inviting them here. To visit. To meet. To—be different together."
I sat down across from her. Felt a warmth spreading through me. Pri
