They weren't singing.
Not really.
The sound coming from the orphans wasn't music.
It wasn't even in a key.
It was more like… breathing with intention.
Like something was using their lungs to remember itself.
---
It started with three of them — all under ten.
They sat in the same room, on opposite sides of the shelter.
One afternoon, they just turned their heads at the same time…
and began to hum.
Not the old Harmony frequencies.
Not Elena's voice.
This was raw. Low.
Like the hum of a machine that hadn't been used in centuries.
It spread fast.
By nightfall, eight more joined in.
Then seventeen.
Ezra stood in the corner, recording it on a loop, analyzing it.
There was no melody.
No rhythm.
But it was consistent.
---
> "Why does it sound like crying?" one of the nurses whispered.
> Ezra didn't answer. He was too busy shivering.
---
Later, he slowed the sound down in his software.
At 30% speed, it resembled a heartbeat.
At 10%, it whispered words:
> "Don't fix me."
He replayed it three times to be sure.
Each time, the voice got a little clearer.
And it wasn't Elena.
It was Mica.
---
The girl with the spiral on her wrist.
The one who told him:
> "It's growing inside me."
---
That night, Mica stopped speaking.
She just stared at Ezra's tape recorder.
Didn't blink.
Didn't hum.
When a nurse tried to move her, her body jerked like a broken puppet.
Then went still.
Ezra stepped closer.
He didn't want to.
But he had to.
He crouched beside her and whispered:
> "What's inside you?"
She didn't move. But her lips parted — just a little.
And in a voice not hers, she said:
> "She's not coming back."
Then:
> "But something else is."
---
Ezra backed away.
Outside, one of the orphans had climbed the roof.
Naked. Humming. Eyes closed.
When they tried to bring him down, he jumped.
He didn't scream.
He just hummed all the way down.
---
Ezra checked the tape recorder one last time that night.
The file had renamed itself.
It now read:
> "Track_0001: Womb."