The front door rasped open, heavy against its hinges, letting in a blast of dry wind and the scent of static-drenched iron. The lights inside the Virek home flickered once, then held steady.
Mirena stood at the kitchen unit, sleeves rolled up and hands stained with grease, halfway through replacing the nutrient recycler's filter mesh. She looked up, blinking in surprise. Arik was home early, long before his shift's end.
"You're early," she said, wiping her hands. "Don't tell me the shaft collapsed again."
"I found something," Arik interrupted. His voice was low. Steady, but different. Not cautious, not tired. Something quieter. With a look of slight uncertainty.
He stepped into the room and gently shut the door behind him.
Mirena's brows furrowed. Arik never interrupted. He never looked uncertain.
Then she saw what he was holding something bundled in a scorched rescue cloth, the edges charred and flaking like burnt paper.
She crossed the room without a word.
"Arik... what is that?"
He held it out carefully, awkwardly, like he wasn't sure if it would break or bite.
Mirena peeled back a corner of the cloth.
Her breath caught.
A baby.
Maybe a few days old. Skin pale and smooth, cheeks flushed only slightly from the temperature change. Black hair clumped softly against his brow. Eyes… wide open. Watching her and not blinking.
Mirena stared, heart thudding louder with every second. "Where did you?"
"Ridge Nine," Arik said. "Near the old survey line. Something shimmered under the dust. I cleared it off. It was a capsule. Sleek. Unmarked."
"Not Guild?"
He shook his head.
"UG?"
"No transponder. No military stamp. No registry. Nothing."
"And… no one else?"
Arik looked away. "Just him."
Mirena reached in and touched the child's tiny hand. It closed over her finger instantly, not in a grasping reflex, but in something intentional. She looked back at the child's face.
Still watching her.
Not with fear. With quiet focus.
A chill ran down her spine.
"He didn't cry?" she asked.
"Not once," Arik said.
She looked up. "You opened the capsule. Was there anything else? Logs? Supplies?"
He hesitated.
"I didn't check."
"What?"
"I... just saw him. Then it closed itself."
Mirena raised an eyebrow. "The capsule closed itself?"
"Sank under the sand," Arik muttered. "Disappeared like it was never there."
Silence stretched between them. The only sound was the soft mechanical hum of the home's ancient air filters and the faint, steady breathing of the child.
Mirena took the bundle from Arik's arms, holding it close to her chest. The baby didn't squirm. He just kept watching her, like he was memorizing the lines of her face.
"We'll need to check for implants," Arik said, uncertainly. "Could be biotech, hidden trackers, birth chip..."
"There's nothing on him," Mirena replied without looking up. "I scanned already. He's clean."
"How do you know?"
"Because I did it the moment you walked in."
She glanced up. "You think I wouldn't?"
Arik scratched the back of his neck, glancing at the floor.
"Mirena..."
"Arik."
Another pause.
Then she turned to the back of the room and laid the baby into the old cradle that had been collecting dust behind a stack of mining gear. She smoothed the blanket, then stood and crossed her arms.
"We keep him," she said.
Arik's mouth opened slightly, closed again. "You don't even know what he is."
"I know what he's not," she said. "He's not trash. He's not a weapon. And he's not going back out into that storm."
Arik stared at the child again. The baby blinked once, slowly.
He nodded, finally. "Alright."
Mirena looked down once more and smiled, faint but genuine.
"Kael," she murmured.
Arik looked over. "What?"
"His name," she said. "Kael. It means ember. Small, quiet… but impossible to extinguish."
The child made no sound. But something behind those eyes, something Arik couldn't name, flickered like a promise.