The shimmer in the med-bay wasn't light.
It was breath.
Soft. Warm. Human.
David crawled toward it, ignoring Elena's outstretched hand. He didn't cry. Didn't babble. Just reached—fingers trembling—with the certainty only a child who'd lost too much could carry.
Inside the glow, something stirred.
Not Luna as they knew her.
Not the woman who bent spacetime with a thought.
But smaller.
Fragile.
A girl.
Six years old, barefoot, wearing a faded blue dress she hadn't worn since before the Devourers came. Her hair was shorter, tangled with leaves that hadn't existed an hour ago. And her eyes—wide, confused, still holding galaxies—but now rimmed with tears she couldn't explain.
She blinked.
Looked at her hands.
Then at David.
"D-David?" Her voice cracked, high and thin, like wind through reeds.
He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her waist so hard she gasped. He buried his face in her dress and sobbed—not from fear, but relief.
She hugged him back instinctively.
