The bells over the dome’s door jingled in a tone too perfect to be mechanical. Maren looked up from behind the counter, her fingers wiping down a surface already spotless.

  “Welcome,” she said, smile gentle, voice light. “Storm’s dying down. You made it just in time.”

  The traveler—a miner, judging by the dust on his boots and the roughness of his coat—smiled back, clearly caught off guard by the warmth in her tone. That happened often.

  She poured his coffee before he asked.

  “It’s on the house if you’ve been to Sector G5 in the st week.”

  His eyes widened. “Just came back yesterday.”

  Maren winked. “Then drink it before it realizes.”

  He ughed, took the cup with gratitude, and settled into the booth near the window where the sun made the sand shimmer gold. Around him, the hum of the dome kept the air temperate, the light soft, the silence comfortable.

  Another customer came in, then two more, and the flow of life returned to Ellira-9’s quiet dome café.

  Maren moved between tables like wind through curtains—present, smooth, unnoticed unless you were looking. She refilled mugs, straightened chairs, and asked about people’s mothers even when they hadn’t told her they had one.

  Smiles, warm eyes, soft ughter. All part of the mask.

  To the people who didn’t know her, she was the best thing about this godforsaken moon. A gentle, lovely girl with a calming presence and the kind of intuition that made you feel seen. A bright thread woven into the daily rhythm.

  But not everyone was fooled.

  At 11:47, a man walked in wearing a scarf too thick for the weather and eyes too sharp for someone pretending to browse the menu.

  Maren’s smile didn’t falter.

  “Welcome,” she said, just the same.

  But her gaze didn’t soften.

  He ordered nothing. Took the farthest table. Pulled out a device disguised as a datapad and began watching her from behind fake reading gsses.

  He didn’t know who she was.

  But he wanted to.

  And that made him dangerous.

  ---

  Cott appeared near the sink as a flicker of golden fur. Maren pretended not to see him. He hopped twice, sighed, and shimmered into near invisibility.

  “Five people think you’re an angel,” he muttered. “Two think you’re an A.I. One thinks you’re some sort of memory ghost.”

  Maren poured tea for the dy at table three. “And the man in the corner?”

  “He’s taking notes. Tried to ping the archive net. Got blocked.”

  “Let him look,” she whispered. “The more he thinks he’s discovering something, the longer he stays blind.”

  Cott sniffed. “He’s not stupid.”

  “Neither am I.”

  ---

  The café quieted by afternoon. The miner left with a free refill. The child from table two drew her a star on a napkin. Even the storm outside seemed gentler.

  Then the boy came back.

  The same boy.

  Nineteen, steel-colored eyes, clean boots. The one who had knocked a day ago. The one who called her the One Who Stepped Down.

  Maren froze only for a second.

  Then smiled.

  “Back for tea?” she asked brightly.

  He nodded. “And answers.”

  She ughed, sweet and low. “You’ll find one of those here.”

  She made his tea anyway. He sat at the same table. Said nothing. Just watched her with that same mix of reverence and doubt.

  The boy was dangerous in a different way.

  He didn’t want to expose her.

  He wanted to understand her.

  Worse.

  He might already be close.

  ---

  She brought the tea and pced it gently in front of him.

  “It’s peppermint today. Good for crity.”

  He didn’t reach for the cup.

  “Why do people forget what they came to ask you?” he said softly.

  She blinked, tilted her head with practiced innocence. “Is that what happened to you?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes flicked briefly to the corner, where Cott floated, listening intently.

  “Then maybe the question wasn’t ready to be asked.”

  “Or maybe,” he said, “you’re making them forget.”

  She ughed again. Too perfectly. “Do I look like someone who can do that?”

  The boy looked her over. Slowly.

  “You look like someone pretending not to be divine.”

  And there it was.

  Not revetion.

  Worse.

  Recognition.

  She took a breath. The room held it with her.

  “I’m just someone who serves tea and remembers people’s names.”

  He nodded. Not in agreement. In acceptance.

  “Then you won’t mind if I stay a while.”

  Maren stepped back. “Stay as long as you like.”

  But her smile, though still in pce, was thinner now.

  Cott floated closer.

  “He almost sees you,” he whispered.

  “I know,” she replied, voice low.

  “What will you do?”

  “Wait until he blinks.”

  ---

  Outside, the sky above Ellira-9 darkened again.

  Not from weather.

  From awareness.

  Someone else had heard the whisper.

  And they were coming.

  Not to ask.

  To cim.