The Echo
Milo's daughter sat at the table, her small hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate. She was nine years old, with her mother's dark eyes and her grandfather's stubborn chin. Her name was Elena, named after a grandmother she had never met, a woman whose legacy was woven into the fabric of their family like a thread of gold and shadow. Damon had always been careful around Elena. He had told her stories about the foundation, about the battles, about the people they had helped. But he had never told her about the darkness—the algorithm, the fragments, the Nexus. He had never told her about her great-grandmother, the woman who had tried to destroy everything they loved. But children were perceptive. They noticed the silences, the gaps in the stories, the shadows that lingered in the corne
- Writer
