Five years after the war, Sera stood in the memorial garden holding her daughter.
Three months old. Dark hair. Eyes that shifted between brown and gold. Perfect.
“This is Aunt Catherine,” Sera said softly, touching the stone bearing her mother’s name. “She would have loved you. Would have spoiled you completely.”
The baby gurgled, unaware of the history surrounding her.
Marcus appeared with supplies. “Luna says feeding time is approaching. We should head back.”
They walked slowly. The garden had expanded—now including educational plaques explaining the network’s fall. Students visited regularly. The stones had become monuments to vigilance.
“Have you decided on a name?” Marcus asked.
“Morgan. After no one. Just Morgan.” Sera adjusted the bundle in her arms. “I don’t want her carryin
