The Child of Light
The golden light was warm.
It wrapped around Mira like a blanket, like a memory, like a dream she had forgotten she had dreamed. The child stood before her, small and still, her dark eyes bright, her dark hair falling over her forehead. She wore a simple dress of white linen, and her bare feet were pressed against the light.
She was Mira.
The Mira who had lived before the grief. Before the hunger. Before the song.
“Hello,” the child said again. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You’re me.”
The child nodded.
“I’m you. The you that was. The you that could have been. The you that might still be.”
“What do you want?”
The child stepped closer.
Her bare feet made no sound.
“I want to help you.”
“Help me how?”
The child reached out.
Her small hand touched Mira’s chest.
Above her heart.
“You are the last linguist. The last listener. The last one who can hear the song. But you are also the daughter of the first dreamer. The granddaughter of the hunger. The heir to the door.”
Mira’s blood went cold.
“The first dreamer was my grandmother?”
“The first dreamer was your grandmother. She opened the door. The hunger consumed her. The song took her. And now it wants you.”
“Why?”
The child looked at the light.
At the golden warmth.
At the pulsing heart.
“Because you are the key. The last key. The one who can close the door.”
Mira’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t want to be the key.”
The child smiled.
It was a real smile, warm and bright and full of love.
“No one wants to be the key. That’s what makes it a burden.”
“How do I close the door?”
The child took her hands.
Her skin was warm.
“You find the heart. You touch the heart. You speak the words.”
“I don’t know the words.”
The child looked at the light.
At the golden warmth.
At the pulsing heart.
“They are in your blood. In your bones. In your breath.”
The golden light grew brighter.
The child grew older.
Her face lengthened. Her shoulders broadened. Her hands grew larger.
She became Mira.
The Mira of now.
The Mira of the ship.
The Mira of the song.
“Do you understand now?” the older Mira asked.
“I understand that I am the key. The last key. The one who can close the door.”
The older Mira nodded.
“And?”
“And I can choose.”
The older Mira stepped back.
The golden light dimmed.
The child returned.
“The door is not the enemy,” the child said. “The hunger is not the enemy. The song is not the enemy.”
“Then what is?”
The child looked at the darkness.
At the nothing.
At the silence.
“The fear. The fear is the enemy. The fear is the hunger. The fear is the song.”
The light faded.
The child faded.
The door faded.
Mira stood alone in the darkness.
The song was quiet.
The hunger was still.
The silence was absolute.
But she understood.
She was the key.
The last key.
And she was ready.